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RURAL  RHYMES, 


LTJRA    ANNA    BOIES. 


also, 


AN    INTRODUCTION, 


W  KEY.   JOSEPH  E.   KING. 


He  is  the  FREEMAN  whom  the  TROTH  makes  free. 

And  all  are  SLAVES  besides. 

He  looks  abroad  into  the  varied  field 

Of  NATCJRE,  and  though  poor  perhaps,  compared 

"With  those  whose  mansions  glitter  in  his  sight. 

Calls  the  delightful  SCENERY  all  his  own. 

His  are  the  mountains,  and  the  valleys  his. 

And  the  resplendent  rivers,  his  t'  enjoy 

With  a  propriety  that  none  can  feel. 

But  who,  with  filial  confidence  inspired, 

Can  lift  to  HEAVEN  an  unpresumptuous  eye. 

And  smiling  say,  "Mr  FATHER  MABB  THEM  ALT,  !" 

COWPEB. 


SARATOGA   SPRINGS: 

STEAM    PRESSES    OF    O.    M.    DAVISON. 
i860. 


Entered,  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and 
fifty-eight, 

BY  LURA  AXXA  BOIES, 

<CS 
in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  U.  S.  District  Court  of  the  Xorthern  District  of  New-York. 


— = 


1 1 


TO 


HON.    WM.    HAY, 


OF 


SARATOGA     SPRINGS, 


33oofc 


IS    KESPECTFCTLL  Y    INSCRIBED    BY    THE 


AUTHORESS. 


INTRODUCTION. 


rule  of  Architecture  requiring  a  portico  to  correspond 
in  style  and~  proportions  to  the  edifice  to  which  it  is  both 
an  entrance  and  an  adornment,  ought,  perhaps,  to  apply  to 
Introductions.  It  had  been  well,  therefore,  for  the  writer, 
had  he  duly  pondered  the  delicacy  of  his  task,  before  permit 
ting  a  Teacher's  pride  and  joy  in  a  well-beloved  pupil,  to 
betray  him  into  a  promise  of  writing  an  introduction  to  this 
volume  of  Poems.  As,  however,  the  rudest  lattice-work 
has,  at  times,  sufficed  for  a  support  to  the  clinging  tendrils  of  a 
flowering  vine,  grown  up  by  the  hospitable  door  of  some  fair 
rural  cottage,  while  itself  has  been  lost  to  sight  in  the  luxu 
riant  verdure  of  o'er-arching  leaves;  so  may  this  plain  portal 
to  the  festal  bower  of  a  fair  daughter  of  the  Muses  deserve 
well  of  the  entering  guests,  whom  it  shall  introduce  by  the 
directest  route,  to  a  rare  repast. 

"God  made  the  country — man,  the  town."    Afar  from  the 
din  and  dust  of  the  town,  in  a  humble  farm-house  on  the  bank 


INTRODUCTION. 


of  the  noble  Hudson,  overlooking  the  site  of  old  Fort  Ed 
ward,  the  gentle  spirit  of  LURA  A.  BOIKS  first  saw  the  light. 
In  this  rural  seclusion,  from  which  she  has  been  lured  only 
far  enough  away,  to  lave  her  thirsting  soul  in  the  nearest 
fountain  of  Learning;  here,  under  the  tuition  of  holy  Nature, 
with  a  few  choice  books  and  a  few  appreciative  friends,  has 
her  young  life  glided  sweetly  on,  to  the  music  of  her  pure 
and  loving  thoughts,  until  all  unconscious  of  the  passing 
years,  lo !  she  has  reached  the  charmed  threshold  of  early 
womanhood;  and — stranger  still — those  uttered  thoughts 
have  grown  to  be  a  volume  of  poems !  while  her  friends 
come  around  her,  to  demand  their  publication. 

That,  in  brief,  is  the  story  of  how  this  book  came  to  be. 

"God  made  the  country."  Therefore  it  is  that  the  poets, 
whose  hearts,  like  the  olden  Bards,  are  fresh  and  simple,  and 
susceptible  to  all  pure  inspirations,  are  they  whose  lives  have 
been  nearest  to  Nature.  If,  in  this  volume,  there  shall  be 
less  of  Art  than  the  professional  critic  may  demand,  there 
will,  at  least,  be  no  bookish  affectations.  The  ingenuous 
reader  will  not  be  tantalized  with  a  display  of  verbal  pyro 
technics,  brilliant,  but  cold  and  cheerless ;  neither  will  any 
dramatic  spasms  or  hysterical  extravagances  tempt  the 
vitiated  appetite  of  the  worn  and  wicked  worldling. 

The  transcendentalist  will  search  in  vain,  through  all  the 
lines  of  our  rural  Poet,  for  that  mysticism  in  which  he  de 
lights  to  lose  himself.  Her  men  and  women  are  all  human, 
with  real  forms  and  dimensions,  with  beating  hearts  that  can 
ache  and  be  glad ;  and  whose  tears  are  moist.  The  children 


INTRODUCTION. 


of  her  verse  are- not  starched  into  manikins  or  perched  upon 
stilts,  but  are  free-lirnbed  boys  and  girls,  that,  at  times,  can 
prattle  and  romp ;  and,  again  in  their  moods,  make  us  feel 
that  "childhood  is  a  holy  thing,"  and  nestling  in  our  bosoms 
can  lead  us  whither  they  will. 

Every  true  heart  will  recognize  in  the  healthful  earnest 
ness,  the  home-like  tenderness  and  the  sincere  unselfishness 
of  these  poems,  a  most  loving  evangel  to  inspire  pure  and 
elevated  thoughts,  and  prompt  to  noble  and  generous  actions. 
It  is  an  unpretending  feast,  to  which  the  reader  is  bidden. 
Wheaten  cakes,  browned  by  the  honest  kitchen  fire-place, 
with  ripe  and  juicy  berries  from  the  meadow,  and  cool  spring 
|l     water,  bubbling  fresh  and  pure  from  the  hillside.     The  table 

SCr 

^|    is  a  patch  of  greensward,  sheltered  by  a  stately   elm,  on 

'4 
whose  rugged  trunk  and  spreading  branches  a  wild  grape 

has  hung  its  verdant  festoons,  to  soften  the  noontide  rays, 
and  to  invite  the  summer-birds  to  linger  with  their  happy 
songs,  and  build  their  nests.  A  few  wild  flowers,  still  wet 
with  morning  dew,  alone  adorn  the  rural  table.  Well,  let 
the  feast  begin  !  Unostentatious  as  it  is,  many  a  weary  heart 
shall  rise  up  from  the  repast,  refreshed,  and  go  out  from  the 
sheltering  elm  with  blessings  upon  the  gentle  giver.  Such 
grea.t-souled  noblemen  of  Nature,  as  Bryant  and  Irving,  shall 
feel  their  old  age  greener  for  a  whole  year,  if  they  shall 
chance  to  sit,  an  hour,  at  this  humble  festive  board.  Here, 
mayhap,  some  Numa  of  state  shall,  in  the  interval  of  his 
heavy  cares,  find  an  "  Egeria  in  the  woods "  which  shall 
smooth  the  wrinkles  from  his  brow,  and  inspire  him  to  be  a 


1 


ft 


: 

INTRODUCTION.  i. 


stronger  and  a  better  man.     And  other  vexed  dignitaries  may 
recognize  in  these  sweet  songs  a  tone  kindred  to  that  of 

"  the  minstrel  shepherd's  lyre 


That  exorcised  Saul's  ennui." 

The  shrinking  Poet,  like  a  timid  fawn,  not  without  many 
misgivings,  trusts  herself  beyond  the  protecting  obscurity  of 
her  native  retreats.  Let  the  presence  of  her  friends  reassure 
her.  The  success  of  her  modest  volume  is  not  left  entirely 
to  the  caprice  of  strangers.  This  first  edition  will  be  well 
nigh  absorbed  by  the  circle  of  private  friends  whom  her 
school-girl  rhymes,  in  the  Institute  chapel,  and  an  occasional 
lyric  in  the  village  papers,  near  her  home,  had  attracted ; 
jj  " ;  and  who,  by  right  of  that  friendship,  will  eagerly  welcome 
this  volume,  and  keep  it  as  a  precious  souvenir,  for  them 
selves  and  their  children. 

May  a  kind  Providence  preserve  the  delicately  wrought 
tabernacle — alas  !  too  frail — of  this  gifted  daughter  of  Poesy, 
that  she  who  has  sung  so  well,  may  long  live  to  wake  the 
echoes  of  this  Muse-haunted  valley,  with  her  divinely  at 
tuned  harp. 

K. 
FORT  EDWARD  INSTITUTE,   N.  Y.  ) 

December,  1858.  ) 


— 


PROOF-READER'S  POSTSCRIPT. 


THE  contents  of  Professor  KING'S  preceding  introduction 
are,  in  consequence  of  its  late  receipt  at  the  printing-office, 
altogether  unknown  to  Miss  BOIES. 

That  remark — but  for  a  different  and  obvious  reason — ap 
plies  also  to  an  ensuing  tribute  of  womanly  respect,  and  sist 
erly  affection ;  a  concise — because  condensed — poem,  which 
the  proof-reader  having  casually  perused  in  manuscript,  and 
purposely  obtained,  publishes  here  on  his  own  authority  alone. 
He  is,  however,  in  no  wise  displeased  with  that  thus  assumed 
responsibility. 

The  authoress,  whose  literary  nom  de  guerre  will  be  readily 
recognized,  was  an  intimate  companion  and  competing  class 
mate  of  Miss  BOIES,  in  a  collegiate  Institute,  and  has  there 
fore,  with  sufficient  knowledge  of  her  subject — a  grateful 
theme — familiarly,  yet  delicately,  addressed  the  following 
appropriate  and  sympathetic 

"LINES   TO   LUEA. 

LOVED  LUKA  !     E'en  the  very  name 

Hath  music  in  its  tone : 
Its  soft  and  gentle  cadence  bears 

A  beauty  all  its  own. 


PROOF-READER'S  POSTSCRIPT. 


Already,  Fame  hath  twined  her  wreath 

Around  thy  brow  so  fair, 
And  every  coming  year  shall  add, 

Fresh  leaves  to  cluster  there. 

And  Time  shall  bring  rich  offerings 

To  lay  upon  thy  shrine  ; 
For  ever  hath  the  world  bowed  down 

Before  such  gifts  as  thine. 

Thine  is  the  power  to  touch,  with  skill, 
The  chords  of  every  heart, — 

To  weave  a  spell  around  the  soul, 
With  more  than  magic  art. 

To  bring  the  finer  feelings  forth, 
To  thee  the  power  is  given ; 

To  raise  the  soul  above  this  earth, 
And  fix  the  thoughts  on  Heaven. 

Then  warble  on.  fair  poetess, — 
Inspired  with  sacred  fire, —    . 

Till  thou  shalt  strike  a  chord  above, 
Upon  thy  golden  lyre, 


CARRIE  MAY. 


Saratoga  Springe. 


CONTENTS. 


TITLE,    OB    FIRST    LINE,     OF    POEM. 

Page. 

JANE  McCREA,         .                                 17 

The  Sequel,           .....;.  28 

Little  Children,         >         .         .         .         .         .         i         .         »  35 

Earnest,        ......;...  40 

Fireside  Angels,       .         ; ;  44 

Unwritten  Poetry,                                            i         .        *  46 
TheEain,          ...         >         >         ......         .         .49 

The  Blind  Bard  of  England,         .         .        >         .        .         .  52 

The  Spirit  of  Song, 57 

Who  are  the  Blest  1      .;.....;  60 

An  Autumn  Reverie,        ;        .         .         .         i         .         .         ;  62 

Death,           ...;......  64 

Rural  Life, 65 

Water,           ......;...  69 

The  Sabbath, 72 

The  Dying  Infant, 73 

A  Skeleton  in  the  National  House,           .....  74 

The  Cholera,         .........  79 

Little  Hattie, »         ...  83 

Peace,  Be  still,              •  86 


Xll  CONTENTS. 


a 

Page. 

The  Bible,        

.      87 

My  little  Namesake,             

89 

Our  Country,            

.      91 

Gone  up  Higher,           
The  Spirit,       

92 
97 

Who  would  not  die  to  live  again  7        .... 

98 

The  Dream,              

.      99 

To  the  Stars  

101 

Our  Angel,       

.     103 

Earth's  Triumph-Hours,       

105 

The  Dead  Child,      

.     112 

The  Beautiful,      

114 

Twilight  Musings,             ....... 

.     115 

The  Divorced  Wife,       
3j     The  Dead  Mother,            
Child  of  Sunshine,        

116 
.     119 
121 

Gleanings  from  the  Hours,       

.     122 

The  Birds,            

127 
128 

Pictures,       

130 

Angel  Charlie,          

.     132 

Song  to  a  Bird,             

133 

To-Day,            

.     134 

Beautiful  to  die,            ....... 

136 

Lines  to  an  Invalid  Sister,        

.     137 

Silent  Cities,         

138 

Lines  to  J  *  *  *  *,             
United,         

.     142 
144 

Sea-Foam,        

.     146 

[1      Our  Band,             

147 

rip    It  is  Nothing  to  Me,         

.     148 

CONTENTS. 


Lights  and  Shades  of  Child-Life, 
Baby  Helen,     .... 

Life, 

Love, 

Epigram, 

Friendship,       . 

Sonnet — Spring  Flowers, 

To  my  Father, 

The  Law  of  Maine, 

One  Glass,         .... 

The  Drunkard's  Wife, 

Temperance  Stanzas, 

We  must  fight  the  battle  over, 

The  Temperance  Jubilee, 

"  Half  a  Hundred  Years  Ago,"     . 

Independence,  (July    3d,  1858,) 

To  my  Mother,     . 

The  Home  of  Washington, 


Page. 

150 
156 
157 
158 
158 
159 
160 
161 
163 
165 
167 
170 
172 
173 
175 
182 
186 
188 


JANE    M'CKEA. 

i. 

'T  WAS  in  the  gorgeous  summer  time, 
The  vesper  bells,  with  mellow  chime, 

Kang  out  the  golden  day. 
Along  the  distant  mountain's  hight, 
And  o'er  the  Hudson,  flashing  bright, 
In  purple  floods  of  dazzling  light, 

The  sunset  glory  lay ; 
The  crimson  of  the  western  fires 
Glowed  redly  on  Fort  Edward's  spires, 

And  deeper  splendors  burned, 
Till  earth,  with  all  her  lakes  and  rills, 
Her  waving  woods  and  towering  hills, 

To  burnished  gold  was  turned. 

ii. 

I  had  been  listening  to  the  chimes, 
And  thinking  of  the  stirring  times, 
When  hill  and  lonely  glen, 


JANE    MCREA. 


Woke  to  the  thunder  tones  of  yore, 

The  sounds  that  rolled  from  shore  to  shore, 

The  deep-mouthed  cannon's  sullen  roar, 

The  tramp  of  mail-clad  men ; 
I  had  been  thinking  of  the  days, 
When  the  fierce  battle's  lurid  blaze, 

Hung  like  a  fiery  cloud, 
O'er  rock  and  river,  wood  and  dell, 
Where  now  the  radiant  sunset  fell, 

And  I  had  left  the  crowd, 
And  sought,  with  hushed  and  reverent  tread, 
That  pleasant  city  of  the  dead, 

Where  the  wild  wind  harps  play, 
And  pine  trees  wave  and  willows  weep, 
Above  her  in  her  dreamless  sleep, 

The  hapless  Jane  M'Crea. 

in. 

Silent,  as  if  on  holy  ground, 
I  neared  that  angel-guarded  mound, 

Where  white  wings  viewless  wave ; 
An  aged  man,  with  hoary  hair, 
And  rude  scars  on  his  forehead  bare, 
Was  kneeling  in  the  sunset  there, 

Upon  the  maiden's  grave. 
Was  it  some  risen  chief  I  saw, 
That  o'er  me  came  that  breathless  awe  ? 

Was  it  some  warrior  bold  ? 
Whose  hand  had  grasped  the  ringing  steel, 
Whose  soul  had  thrilled  to  freedom's  peal, 

In  the  wild  strife  of  old  ? 


JAKE  M'CREA. 


IV. 

With  sudden  tears  mine  eyes  grew  dim, 
Nearer  I  drew  and  questioned  him 

Of  all  the  storied  past ; 
Of  the  fierce  days  when  roused  our  sires 

To  the  shrill  trumpet's  blast, 
And  the  red  light  of  hattle  fires 

Upon  our  free  hills  lay ; 
I  asked  him  of  that  green  arcade, 
Where  gleamed  the  savage  chieftain's  blade, 
I  asked  of  her,  the  Scottish  maid, 

The  fated  Jane  M'Crea ! 

v. 

Then  did  the  veteran  warrior  speak, 
And  down  his  pale  and  furrowed  cheek 

The  hot  tears  glistening  ran ; 
Then  with  the  old  fire  flashed  his  eye, 
His  trembling  tones  rose  clear  and  high, 

And  thus  his  tale  began. 

PART  I. 


The  booming  guns  of  Lexington 
Had  roused  the  sire  and  gallant  son, 
And  louder  than  the  trumpet's  clang 
The  notes  of  wild  alarum  rang, 
The  dawning  light  of  Freedom's  star, 
Shone  dimly  in  the  skies  afar, 


JANE    MCREA. 


Where  veiled  in  the  black  night  of  war 

The  sun  of  Peace  went  down. 
And  by  that  faint  and  flickering  glow, 
The  brave  of  heart,  and  broad  of  brow, 
Had  boldly  sworn  they  would  not  bow 
To  England's  regal  crown. 

ii. 
A  thrill  went  through  Columbia's  soul, 

An  alien  sound  went  o'er  the  sea, 
Majestic  as  an  anthem's  roll, 

The  DECLARATION  of  the  free ! 
Earth's  startled  millions  wondering  heard, 
Britannia,  to  her  proud  heart  stirred, 
Hurled  back  the  bold  defiant  word, 
And  drew,  in  wrath,  her  flaming  sword. 
Fiercely  the  hostile  nations  met, 
And  yonder  sun  in  darkness  set, 

On  many  a  fatal  day ; 
In  scenes  of  blood  and  carnage  dire, 
'Mid  hissing  balls  the  gray  haired  sire 
Fought  with  the  youthful  warrior's  fire 

In  many  a  deadly  fray ; 
Still  rose  the  red  War's  fiery  form, 
Still  raged  the  furious  battle's  storm, 

When  Burgoyne's  haughty  hosts, 
Breaking  the  waves  with  mighty  sweep, 
Came  o'er  the  waters  blue  and  deep, 

And  landed  on  our  coasts. 


JANE    MCREA. 


III. 

Clad  in  the  battle's  bright  array, 
With  waving  plumes  and  pennons  gay, 

And  flaming  banners  spread, 
And  arms  that  in  the  sunlight  glanced, 
Forward  the  British  ranks  advanced 

With  slow  and  measured  tread ; 
Then  rose  a  swift  and  rushing  sound, 
That  woke  the  hills  and  shook  the  ground, 

Then  freemen  fought  and  fell. 
Then  redder  gushed  the  crimson  flood, 
Then  was  our  land  baptized  in  blood — 
Of  all  the  strife  that  followed  then, 
That  thrilled  the  hearts  of  mighty  men, 

Ah  me !  I  may  not  tell ! 

IV. 

The  spirit  of  that  warlike  age 

I  feel  its  fire  within  me  rage, 

My  bosom  heaves,  my  old  heart  swells, 

I  feel  it  now,  the  evening  bells 

King  out  the  dying  day. 
I  hear  the  sound  of  martial  strains, 

I  hear  the  war-horse  neigh ; 
I  see  the  smoke  of  battle  plains, 
The  swift  blood  courses  through  my  veins, 

I  plunge  into  the  fray. 
I  feel  the  scorching,  burning  blaze, 
I  live  again  those  stirring  days, 

The  davs  of  Jane  M'Crea ! 


JANE  M'CKEA. 


PART  II. 


'T  was  morning. —  Rich  and  radiant  dyes 
Flamed  in  the  gorgeous  orient  skies  : 
Draped  in  the  purple  of  his  throne 
The  royal  sun  resplendent  shone. 
The  broad,  blue  Hudson  blazing  bright, 
Glowed  like  a  line  of  liquid  light, 
A  wave  of  glory  rippled  o'er 
The  hills  along  the  eastern  shore, 
And  waving  wood  and  fortress  gray, 
Blushing  in  rosy  splendor  la}r, 
Kissed  by  the  red  lips  of  the  day, 
And  glittering  spear  and  lances'  gleam 
Flashed  back  again  the  rising  beam. 

ii. 

On  the  broad  lands  beyond  the  wood, 

Now  bright  with  harvest  sheaves, 
The  solid  lines  of  Albion  stood 

Thick  as  the  forest  leaves ; 
Hot  haste  and  consternation  then, 
Spread  through  the  ranks  of  our  brave  men, 
A  clear  blast  rang  throughout  the  glen, 

Louder  than  hunter's  horn, 
And  the  quick  tramp  of  hurrying  feet, 
The  drum's  deep  bass  that  rapid  beat, 
The  gathering  din  of  swift  retreat, 

Rose  on  the  summer  morn. 


JANE    M    ORE  A. 


III. 

From  many  a  lowly  woodland  home 
Went  up  the  cry  "  The  foe !  they  come  \" 
And  warm  young  hearts  grew  faint  with  fear, 
And  little  children  clustered  near, 

And  blushing  cheeks  grew  pale  ; 
And  many  a  form  with  noiseless  glide 
Stole  to  the  gallant  warrior's  side, 
And  fluttering  garments,  white  and  fair, 
Were  blent,  in  strange  confusion  there, 

With  coats  of  burnished  mail. 

IV. 

A  Aside,  that  morn,  from  all  the  crowd, 

In  earnest  thought  her  young  head  bowed, 

The  Scottish  maiden  stood, 
With  downcast  face  and  lips  apart, 
A  new  joy  thrilling  in  her  heart, 
That  gave  her  cheek  a  warmer  glow, 
And  brought  unto  its  stainless  snow 

The  quick  o'ermantling  blood. 
Thus  stood  she  bound  as  by  a  spell, 

Oh,  in  that  hour  how  wondrous  fair ! 
Around  her  like  a  glory  fell, 

The  rich  veil  of  her  raven  hair, 
The  fearless  spirit  throbbing  high 
Lit  up  her  clear,  calm  hazel  eye, 
And  lent  the  face  bowed  meekly  there, 

A  beauty  such  as  angels  wear. 


24  JANE  M'CREA. 


v. 

Oh,  human  love !  what  strength  divine, 
What  strange  mysterious  power  is  thine ; 
It  was  thy  light  that  inward  shone 
And  bound  her  in  its  radiant  zone ; 
It  was  thy  low,  melodious  lay 
That  charmed  her  soul  from  earth  away, 
Till  mindless  of  the  outward  din 
She  only  heard  the  voice  within, 
And  listened  to  the  silver  tone, 
That  whispered  of  the  chosen  one 
To  whom  her  plighted  troth  was  given, 
Who  filled  her  deepest  heart  with  heaven ! 
By  thee,  a  willing  captive  led, 
The  maiden  knew  no  secret  dread, 

Nor  felt  a  boding  fear ; 
Nor  heard  the  Indian's  stealthy  tread, 

Nor  saw  the  danger  near. 

VI. 

A  sudden  shriek,  a  piercing  cry, 
That  seemed  to  rend  the  bending  sky, 
Went  up  that  morn  so  shrill  and  high, 
It  made  the  sternest  soldier  start, 

And  chilled  and  froze  the  circling  blood, 
And  sent  it  curdling  to  his  heart, 

That  still  with  terror  stood ; 
Then  rose  a  wild  demoniac  yell, 
A  sound  our  brave  men  knew  too  well ! 


JANE    M   CUBA. 


VII. 

Each  soul  had  felt  the  sickening  fear, 
Each  hand  had  grasped  the  gleaming  spear, 
When  on  the  air,  distinct  and  clear, 
The  tramp  of  falling  hoof  drew  near, 
And  with  thin  nostrils  spreading  wide, 
The  ringing  spur  plunged  in  his  side, 
With  headlong  fury  rushing  fast, 
A  foaming  courser  darted  past. 
Ha !  't  was  the  chieftain  held  the  rein 
And  goaded  on  the  steed  amain, 
And  one,  a  gentle  girl,  was  there, 
With  hazel  eye  and  flowing  hair ; 
Grasped  in  his  sinewy  arm,  and  press'd 
Rudely  upon  his  brawny  chest, 

The  frail  form  helpless  lay. 
Alas  for  thee !  thou  captured  maid, 
Oh  that  some  hand  thy  doom  had  stayed, 

Thou  fated  Jane  M'Crea ! 


VIII. 

A  voice  went  up  from  mighty  men, 

A  loud  and  stirring  cry, 
And  the  bold  warrior  shouted  then, 

"Mount !  to  the  rescue  fly !" 
They  rose,  a  brave  and  gallant  few, 
And  o'er  the  ground  their  swift  steeds  flew, 

Winged  with  the  lightning's  speed ; 
Till  in  that  green  and  shady  dell, 
Where  the  clear  waters  sparkling  well, 


JANE  M'CREA. 


Where  towers  the  tall  and  stately  pine, 
And  the  light  falls  with  softer  shine. 
The  savage  gave  a  fiercer  yell, 

And  reined  his  panting  steed. 
Forth  from  the  leafy  woodland  shades, 

Leaped  many  a  painted  warrior's  form, 
And  brightly  glanced  their  murderous  blades, 

And  wildly  rose  the  battle's  storm. 
Hot  balls  hissed  through  the  summer  sheen, 

And  haughty  plumes  and  crests  bent  low, 
Then  darker  grew  the  fearful  scene, 

And  waves  of  blood  surged  to  and  fro. 
Before  the  shower  of  fiery  hail, 
The  chieftain  saw  his  numbers  fail,  A 

With  ire  his  swarthy  cheek  grew  pale, 
And  turning  from  the  fell  strife  there, 

He  stood  by  her,  the  Scottish  maid. 
He  seized  her  long  and  flowing  hair, 

And  o'er  her  gleamed  his  naked  blade ; 
And  reeking  with  the  tide  of  life, 
Back  flashed  the  long  and  glittering  knife ; 
A  fiendish  sneer  upon  his  lip, 

A  strange  wild  triumph  in  his  eye, 
The  chieftain  saw  the  red  blood  drip, 

And  held  the  ghastly  trophy  high ; 
Then  round  him  drew  his  blanket-plaid, 
And  plunged  into  the  forest  shade. 

IX. 

The  strong,  stern  man — the  warrior  true — 
Felt  in  his  eye  the  gathering  dewr, 


JANE  M'CREA.  27 


When  with,  hushed  tread  he  nearer  drew, 

To  the  still  form  beneath  the  pine — 
The  maiden  on  the  dewy  green ; 

For  ne'er  did  morning  sunlight  shine 
Upon  a  stranger,  sadder  scene. 
The  warm  bright  life-tide's  crimson  flow, 
Dyed  deep  her  graceful  garments'  snow, 
And  mingled  with  the  waters  clear, 
That  in  the  glad  light  sparkled  near. 

The  heart  that  thrill'd  to  love  before, 
To  love's  soft  strain  would  thrill  no  more ; 
The  light  of  her  young  life  had  fled, 
Too  well  they  knew  that  she  was  dead. 
Yet  better  far,  thus  to  have  died, 
Than  to  have  been  a  tory's  bride. 

Now  oft  beside  that  cooling  spring, 
The  little  children  shout  and  sing, 

And  in  that  sylvan  dell, 
Full  many  a  form  of  maiden  grace, 
Treads  lightly  o'er  the  hallowed  place, 

Where  she,  the  fated,  fell. 

On  Saratoga's  battle  plains, 

Where  low  the  British  standard  lay, 
The  murdered  maiden's  gory  stains, 

In  British  blood  were  washed  away. 
The  glory  of  that  triumph  day 


Avenged  the  death  of  Jane  M'Crea. 


83= 


28 


JANE  M'CREA. 


The  old  man  paused ;  the  trembling  tones 

That  woke  the  bright  unconscious  tear, 
Sad  as  the  low  wind's  music  moans, 

Died  on  my  rapt  and  listening  ear. 
Then  in  that  solemn  evening  time, 
When  vesper  bells  had  ceased  to  chime, 

And  all  the  quiet  air 
Was  hushed,  as  if  this  world  of  ours 
Had  closer  clasped  her  trees  and  flowers, 
And  whispered  peace  through  all  her  bowers, 

And  bowed  her  heart  in  prayer ; 
A  hush  upon  my  reverent  soul, 
An  awe  that  o'er  my  being  stole, 

Mournful  I  turned  away, 
And  left  the  worn  old  soldier  there, 
His  white  locks  streaming  in  the  air, 
The  dew  upon  his  forehead  bare, 
And  left  the  consecrated  ground, 
Where  holy  memories  cluster  round, 

The  grave  of  Jane  M'Crea. 


THE    SEQUEL. 

He  fell,  the  bold  hero !  low  lay  the  proud  form 
That  braved  the  red  wrath  of  the  battle's  wild  storm, 
When  dark  hung  the  cloud  of  the  furious  fray 
O'er  the  fell  hights  of  Bemis,  they  bore  him  away. 


THE    SEQUEL. 


He  spoke,  and  his  heart  for  a  moment  beat  high, 
The  fire  of  his  spirit  flashed  forth  from  his  eye, 
"When  the  terrible  voice  of  the  conflict  is  still, 
Lay  me  down  in  the  sunset  to  rest  on  the  hill."* 

They  saw  the  fierce  gleam  of  the  battle  light  fade, 
And  faint  grew  the  roar  of  the  fell  cannonade, 
When  the  wing  of  the  night  fluttered  down  o'er  the 

west, 
They  laid  the  brave  warrior  away  to  his  rest. 

Proud  day,  Columbia,  for  thee, 

When  upward  soared  thine  eagle  FREE  ! 

Proud  day,  when  from  the  hills  of  strife 

The  sullen  war-cloud  rolled  away, 
And  Triumph  waved  her  peaceful  wing 

Above  the  fell  and  fatal  fray. 
Glad  millions  shouted  then  "TIS  DONE!" 
And  high  hearts  hailed  the  victory  won, 

And  clear  the  exulting  strain, 
In  one  loud  peal  of  lofty  song, 

Went  o'er  the  heaving  main. 


*  "  He  (General  Frazer)  was  asked  if  he  had  any  request  to  make, 
to  which  he  replied,  that  if  General  Burgoyne  would  permit  it,  he 
should  like  to  be  buried  at  6  o'clock  in  the  evening,  on  the  top  of  a 
mountain,f  in  a  redout  which  had  been  built  there."^: — Baroness  de 
ReideseVs  Narrative. 

t  Betnia  Hlghts. 

J  "Mr.  Brudenell,  (the  chaplain  who  officiated  at  the  funeral  services,)  afterwards  stated 
that  when  the  dying  hero  announced  his  desire  to  be  buried  in  the  redout,  his  eye,  which 
had  been  dim,  was  momentarily  lighted  up  witli  a  falcon-like  flashing,  contrasting  pain 
fully  with  the  countenance  of  spectral  paleness.  So  strong  in  death,  was  the  dominant 
passion— glory  or  fume."— Extract  from  an  unpublished,  narrative. 


JANE  M'CKEA. 


Oh,  there  was  grief  and  anguish  then 
In  the  bowed  hearts  of  Albion's  men, 
And  dark  as  night  the  wing  of  woe, 
Brooded  above  the  vanquished  foe ! 
Not  as  when  girded  for  the  strife, 
In  the  full  flush  of  daring  life, 

With  glowing  hopes  all  vain. 
Through  the  dim  silence,  hushed  and  still, 
At  sunset  up  the  chosen  hill, 

Wound  the  slow  funeral  train. 
Oh,  not  as  marshaled  for  the  field, 
With  burnished  lance  and  gleaming  shield, 

And  scarlet  banners  flame, 
That  stricken  band  of  warriors  brave 

To  the  lone  burial  came  ; 
Nor  yet,  with  death-flag's  ebon  wave 

And  sound  of  muffled  drum, 
As  conquering  heroes  to  the  grave 

Of  martial  glory  come. 
No  plaintive  dirge  rose  on  the  air, 
No  sable  plumes  drooped  darkly  there, 
But  with  hushed  hearts  and  mournful  tread, 
They  bore  away  their  gallant  dead. 

More  awful  than  the  battle's  roll 
The  gloom  that  bowed  each  haughty  soul, 
And  wilder  was  the  storm  within 
Than  the  fierce  conflict's  raging  din, 

Where  he,  the  hero,  fell, 
'Mid  clash  of  arms  and  ring  of  steel, 


THE    SEQUEL. 


And  brazen  trumpet's  clarion  peal, ' 
And  noise  of  bursting  shell. 

Hark !  from  the  hills  a  sudden  sound 
Trembles  along  the  startled  ground, 

And  slowly  dies  away — 
'T  is  from  the  bosom  of  the  free, 
The  mighty  heart  of  victory 
Throbs  in  that  solemn,  mourning  gun, 
And  thus  to  Albion's  fallen  son 

The  brave  their  tribute  pay.* 

'T  is  beautiful,  when  those  who  met 
In  dire  and  dreadful  strife,  forget 

Their  hatred,  dark  and  deep ; 
And  when  the  tide  of  life  swells  high, 
Lay  all  their  full  rejoicing  by, 

To  weep  with  those  who  weep ! 

Oh,  grateful  in  that  hour  of  woe 

To  those  whose  light  had  fled, 
The  homage  of  the  conquering  foe, 

To  him  their  noble  dead  ! 

*  "  The  growing  darkness  added  solemnity  to  the  scene.  Suddenly 
the  irregular  firing  ceased,  and  the  solemn  voice  of  a  single  cannon, 
at  measured  intervals,  boomed  along  the  valley  and  awakened  the 
repose  of  the  hills.  It  was  a  minute-gun  fired  b}T  the  Americans  in 
honor  of  the  gallant  dead.  The  moment  information  was  given 
that  the  gathering  at  the  redoubt  was  a  funeral  company,  fulfilling 
amid  imminent  perils  the  last-breathed  wishes  of  the  noble  Frazer, 
orders  were  given  to  withhold  the  cannonade  with  balls,  and  to  render 
military  homage  to  the  fallen  brave."  [Lossings'  Field  Book  of  the 
Revolution,  p.  65,  vol.  1. 


32  JANE  M'CREA. 


And  many  a  stern  heart's  mute  despair, 
Was  melted  into  softness  there, 

And  hot  tears  fell  like  rain, 
O'er  the  bold  solditer's  coffined  form, 

The  gallant  Frazer  slain ! 

The  night  came  down  in  silence  grand 

Above  the  hero's  grave ; 
They  turned  away  that  mournful  band — 

They  left  the  sleeping  brave 
Far  from  his  own,  his  native  land, 

Beyond  the  deep  blue  wave, 
And  cloud  and  storm  and  gathering  gloom, 
Were  mourners  at  the  warrior's  tomb ! 


'T  was  the  wild  eve  of  that  dread  day 

When  Albion's  haughty  standard  fell, 
Eed  lightnings  flashed  above  the  slain, 

And  thunders  tolled  a  fearful  knell. 
The  dying  wail,  the  hollow  groan 
Blent  strangely  with  the  hoarse  wind's  moan, 
And  darkly  o'er  the  fatal  Hights 

Where  cold  the  ghastly  fallen  slept, 
Black  clouds  hung  like  a  sable  pall, 

And  sad  the  pitying  heavens  wept. 

Out  in  the  deep  night's  starless  gloom, 

Like  a  white  angel  in  the  storm, 
"  Moved  by  her  pure  heart's  deathless  love, 


THE    SEQUEL. 


Stole  woman's  frail  and  tender  form.* 
Above  her  burst  the  tempest's  wrath, 
And  shadows  gathered  o'er  her  path, 
And  yet  the  hurtling,  shrieking  blast 

Swept  all  unheeded  by ; 
For  colder  than  the  blinding  rain, 
The  weary  weight  of  grief"  and  pain. 

That  on  her  soul  did  lie. 
With  falling  tears  her  face  grew  damp, 

A  mist  came  o'er  her  clear,  blue  eye ; 
Her  love,  her  light,  her  spirit's  pride, 
He  whose  low  voice  had  called  her,  bride, 
Bound  bleeding  in  the  foeman's  camp, 

Had  laid  him  down  to  die. 


*  When  the  wife  of  Major  Ackland  learned  that  her  husband  was 
wounded  and  a  prisoner,  she  resolved  to  solicit  of  the  enemy  the 
favor  of  ministering  to  him,  personally,  in  his  affliction.  The  night 
she  set  out  for  the  American  camp  was  wild  and  stormy,  rendering 
the  voyage  on  the  river  extremely  perilous. 

General  Burgoyne  thus  writes  concerning  the  proposal  of  Lady 
Harriet  to  visit  the  camp  of  the  enemy,  which  was  submitted  to  his 
decision  :  "  Though  I  was  ready  to  believe  that  patience  and  forti 
tude,  in  a  supreme  degree,  were  to  be  found,  as  well  as  every  other 
virtue,  under  the  most  tender  forms,  I  was  astonished  at  this  proposal. 
After  so  long  an  agitation  of  spirits,  exhausted  not  only  by  want 
of  rest,  but,  absolutely,  want  of  food ;  drenched  in  rains  for  twe)ve 
hours  together  ;  that  a  woman  should  be  capable  of  such  an  under 
taking  as  delivering  herself  to  the  enemy,  probably  in  the  night,  and 
uncertain  of  what  hands  she  might  first  fall  into,  appeared  an  effort 
above  human  nature.  *  *  *  * 

"  Let  such  as  are  affected  by  these  circumstances  of  alarm,  hardship 
and  danger,  recollect  that  the  subject  of  them  was  a  woman ;  of  the 
most  tender  and  delicate  frame  ;  of  the  gentlest  manners,  and  habit 
uated  to  all  the  soft  elegancies  and  refined  enjoyments  that  attend  high 
birth  and  fortune.  Her  mind  alone  was  formed  for  such  trials." 


— 

34  JANEM'CREA. 

Oh,  stronger  in  that  awful  hour, 

And  mightier  than  the  strife, 
Her  tried  affection's  holy  power, 
That  lofty  inspiration  gave, 
And  nerved  with  courage,  calm  and  brave, 

The  true,  highrhearted  wife  ! 
She  in  her  fearless  fa.ith  would  seek 

The  proud,  victorious  foe, 
The  chilling  grief  that  blanched  her  cheek, 
To  the  stern  hearts  of  men  should  speak : 
The  strong  should  bow  before  the  weak, 

And  pity  her  wild  woe."* 
Her  love  the  stricken  one  should  bless, 
Her  lips  the  brow  of  pain  should  press, 
By  all  her  soul's  deep  tenderness, 

She  to  her  lord  would  go ! 

Down  by  the  surging  river's  shore, 
Lashed  by  the  foaming  spray, 

*  The  following  account  of  the  devoted  wife's  reception  at  the  Amer 
ican  camp,  is  from  the  pen  of  Wilkinson:  "  About  ten  o'clock  I  was 
advised  from  the  advanced  guard  on  the  river,  that  a  batteau  under 
a  flag  of  truce  had  arrived  from  the  enemy,  with  a  lady  on  hoard, 
who  bore  a  letter  to  General  Gates  from  General  Burgoyne.  *  *  * 

"  The  party  on  board  the  boat  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
sentinel,  and  he  had  not  hailed  ten  minutes  before  she  struck  the 
shore ;  the  lady  was  immediately  conveyed  into  the  apartment  of 
Major  Dearborn,  which  had  been  cleared  for  her  reception.  The  next 
morning  when  I  visited  the  guard,  before  sunrise,  her  boat  had  put 
off  and  was  floating  down  the  stream  to  our  camp,  where  General 
Gates,  whose  gallantry  will  not  be  denied,  stood  ready  t^  receive  her 
with  all  the  tenderness  and  respect  to  which  her  rank  and  condition 
gave  her  a  claim ;  indeed,  the  feminine  figure,  the  benign  aspect,  and 
polished  manners  of  this  charming  woman  were  alone  sufficient  to 
attract  the  sympathy  of  the  most  obdurate." 


LITTLE    CHILDREN. 


With  spreading  sail  and  waiting  oar, 

The  frail  boat  ready  lay— 
And  thither  with  light  step  and  fleet, 
Her  fond  heart  winging  her  fast  feet, 

The  brave  wife  bent  her  way. 
A  moment's  pause,  a  brief  space  o'er, 
And  swift  the  light,  careering  barque, 
Launched  out  upon  the  waters  dark, 
And  closer  round  her  shivering  form, 
Fell  the  cold  mantle  of  the  storm. 

Oh,  strengthened  by  the  holy  flame, 

That  glows  within  her  breast, 
And  nerves  with  power  her  gentle  frame, 
When  clouds  come  o'er  her  heaven  fair, 
What  will  not  woman  do  and  dare 
For  those  her  love  hath  blest ! 


LITTLE    CHILDREN. 

THERE  is  music,  there  is  sunshine, 

Where  the  little  children  dwell, 
In  the  cottage,  in  the  mansion, 

In  the  hut  or  in  the  cell ; 
There  is  music  in  their  voices, 

There  is  sunshine  in  their  love, 
And  a  joy  forever  round  them, 

Like  a  glory  from  above.    . 


LITTLE    CHILDREN.' 


There's  a  laughter-loving  spirit 

Glancing  from  the  soft  blue  eyes, 
Flashing  through  the  pearly  tear-drops, 

Changing  like  the  summer  skies ; 
Lurking  in  each  roguish  dimple, 

Nestling  in  each  ringlet  fair, 
Over  all  the  little  child-face 

Grleaming,  glancing  every  where. 

They  will  win  our  smiles  and  kisses, 

By  a  thousand  pleasant  ways, 
By  the  sweet  bewitching  beauty 

Of  their  sunny,  upward  gaze  ; 
And  we  cannot  help  but  love  them, 

When  their  young  lips  meet  our  own, 
And  the  magic  of  their  presence 

Round  about  our  hearts  is  thrown. 

Little  children  !  yes,  we  love  them 

For  their  spirit's  ceaseless  flow, 
For  the  joy  that  ever  lingers 

Where  their  bounding  footsteps  go ; 
'T  is  the  sunshine  of  their  presence 

Makes  the  lowly  cottage  fair, 
And  the  palace  is  a  prison 

If  no  little  one  is  there. 

« 

When  they  ask  us  curious  questions, 

In  a  sweet,  confiding  way, 
We  can  only  smile  in  wonder, 

Hardly  knowing  what  to  say ; 


LITTLE    CHILDREN.  37 

As  they  sit  in  breathless  silence, 

Waiting  for  our  kind  replies, 
What  a  world  of  mystic  meaning 

Dwells  within  the  lifted  eyes. 

If,  perchance,  some  passing  shadow 

Bests  upon  the  little  heart, 
Then  the  pouting  lip  will  quiver 

And  the  silent  tear  will  start ; 
Yet 't  is  only  for  a  moment, 

Sunny  smiles  again  will  play, 
At  a  tone  or  word  of  kindness, 

Spoken  in  a  pleasant  way. 

Now  we  see  them  meekly  kneeling 

In  the  quiet  hour  of  prayer, 
Now  we  hear  their  ringing  laughter 

Floating  on  the  summer  air ; 
Breathing  all  the  soul  of  music, 

Soft  it  rises,  clear  it  swells, 
In  its  wild  and  thrilling  gladness, 

Sweeter  than  the  chime  of  bells. 

Hath  this  world  of  ours  no  angels  ? 

Do  our  dimly  shaded  eyes 
Ne'er  behold  the  seraph's  glory 

In  its  meek  and  lowly  guise  ? 
Can  we  see  the  little  children, 

Ever  beautiful  and  mild, 
And  again  repeat  the  story, 

Nothing  but  a  little  child  ? 


LITTLE    CHILDREN. 


I  have  seen  them  watch  the  glory 

Of  the  purple  sunset  sky, 
All  the  soul's  unuttered  feeling 

Beaming  from  the  speaking  eye  ; 
To  my  heart  there  came  a  rapture 

Which  the  lifted  face  did  bring, 
And  I  thought,  within  my  spirit, 

Childhood  is  a  holy  thing. 

When  the  soul,  all  faint  and  weary. 

Falters  in  the  upward  way, 
And  the  clouds  around  us  gather, 

Shutting  out  each  starry  ray  j 
Then  the  merry  voice  of  childhood 

Seems  a  soft  and  soothing  strain- 
List  we  to  its  silvery  cadence, 

And  our  hearts  grow  glad  again, 

When  they  talk  to  us  of  Heaven, 

How  we  listen,  half  in  awe  ! 
As  if  they  some  holy  vision — 

Some  resplendent  glory  saw ; 
For  we  know  that  they  are  better, 

They  are  holier  than  we, 
And  they  seem  to  us  as  angels, 

Spotless  in  their  purity. 

Little  children,  are  ye  happy  ? 

Are  ye  never,  never  sad  ? 
Are  your  brows  forever  cloudless, 

And  your  hearts  forever  glad  ? 


LITTLE     CHILDREN.  39 

Is  there  light  and  joy  forever, 
Where  your  merry  footsteps  fall, 

In  the  orchard,  in  the  garden, 
In  the  yard  or  in  the  hall  ? 

Is  there  freedom  in  your  laughter  ? 

Is  there  gladness  in  your  tones  ? 
Is  there  sunlight  in  your  child-hearts  ? 

Tell  me,  0  ye  little  ones  ! 
Ah !  we  hear  no  whispered  sorrow, 

Breathing  of  the  heart's  unrest, 
Well  we  know  that  ye  are  happy, 

Well  we  know  that  ye  are  blest. 

Oh  !  I  wonder  not  the  Saviour, 

He,  the  beautiful,  the  meek, 
To  the  precious  little  children, 

Tender,  loving  words  did  speak. 
'T  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  teach  them 

Unto  him  to  bend  the  knee, 
Since  He  spake  the  words  of  blessing, 

"  Suffer  them  to  come  to  me." 

Yea,  of  such  is  heaven's  kingdom, 

And  if  we  would  enter  there, 
We  must  seek  the  sinless  garment 

Which  the  little  child  doth  wear. 
Father,  blesg  the  little  children, 

Bless  theni  every  where  they  dwell- 
In  the  palace,  in  the  mansion, 

In  the  hut  or  in  the  cell ; 


EARNEST. 


May  the  clouds  of  sin  and  sorrow 
Never  darken  o'er  their  way, 

And  in  heart  may  we  be  like  them, 
Pure  and  innocent  as  they. 


EARNEST. 

EARNEST  !  t'  is  a  little  word, 
Often  spoken,  often  heard, 
Written,  printed,  read  and  spelt, 
Mighty  only  when  't  is  felt ! 
Earnest !  t'  is  the  electric  fire, 
Kindled  by  the  high  desire, 
Glowing  solemnly  and  still, 
Moulding  all  things  to  the  will, 
Soul  of  action,  spring  of  thought, 
Working  miracles  of  nought, 
Throwing  years  into  an  hour, 
Volumes  may  not  tell  its  power ! 

Student  with  the  thoughtful  brow, 
Lighted  by  ambition's  glow, 
Toiling  up  the  rugged  steep, 
Worn  and  weary,  faint  and  weak, 
Reaching  after  hidden  things, 
Wouldst  thou  soar  on  eagle-wings — 
Wouldst  thou  scale  the  mountain's  hight, 


EARNEST. 


Bathe  in  the  unclouded  light, 
See  the  secret  fount  unsealed, 
Head  the  mystery  revealed, 
Earnest  delving  in  the  mine, 
Where  the  gems  of  science  shine, 
Earnest  seeking  for  the  light, 
That  shall  make  the  darkness  bright 
Earnestness  to  will  and  do, 
Deep,  resistless,  strong  and  true — 
This  shall  prove  the  master  key, 
Opening  the  way  for  thee, 
This  shall  plant  thy  fainting  feet 
Where  the  crystal  waters  meet, 
Gushing  from  Castalia's  springs, 
This  shall  lend  thy  spirit  wings, 
Throne  thee  in  the  sea  of  light 
Streaming  from  the  mountain's  hight. 

Poet,  with  the  dreamy  eye, 

Born  with  aspirations  high, 

Wouldst  thou  weave  the  burning  thought 

Into  strains  with  music  fraught, 

Binding  with  a  mighty  spell, 

Wheresoe'er  thy  numbers  swell, 

Chaining  e'en  the  idle  throng, 

Give  thy  soul  unto  thy  song ! 

Poesy  languished  till  it  caught 

Genius  from  the  earnest  thought — 

Write  in  earnest,  ye  that  write, 

Let  the  heart  the  words  indite ; 


EARNEST. 


Write  not  for  a  sounding  name, 
Not  for  fortune,  not  for  fame, 
Write  not  for  the  things  that  be, 
Write — but  for  eternity. 

Statesman,  with  the  tongue  of  flame, 
Jealous  of  thy  country's  fame, 
Wouldst  thou  wield  the  sword  of  might, 
Plead  in  earnest  for  the  right ; 
Wouldst  thou  sway  the  breathless  crowd 
By  thine  inspiration  bowed, 
Earnestly  and  firmly  speak  j 
This  shall  flush  the  list'ner's  cheek, 
This  shall  fire  the  kindling  eye, 
Flashing  back  the  soul's  reply  ; 
This  shall  prove  the  wondrous  charm 
That  shall  error's  hosts  disarm, 
Yea,  each  thrilling  word  shall  then 
Tell  upon  the  hearts  of  men, 
And  thine  earnestness  shall  be 
Mind  and  strength  and  power  to  thee. 

Christian  !  'mid  the  tempest's  strife, 
On  the  stormy  sea  of  life, 
Wouldst  thou  safely  steer  thy  barque 
O'er  the  waters  deep  and  darjc ; 
Wouldst  thou  win  the  dazzling  prize, 
Veiled  away  from  mortal  eyes, 
Earnest  clinging  to  the  cross, 
When  the  angry  billows  toss, 


EARNEST. 


Earnest  faith  and  earnest  prayer, 
Earnest  will  to  do  and  bear, 
These  shall  pave  the  way  for  thee 
Unto  immortality. 
Pray  in  earnest,  ye  that  pray, 
Work  in  earnest  while  ye  may ; 
Very  few  shall  wear  the  crown, 
Who  would  lay  their  armor  down } 
Very  few  shall  win  the  day 
Who  are  weary  by  the  way ! 
Very  few  shall  enter  in, 
Who  have  not  in  earnest  been; 

Earnest !  't  is  a  little  word, 
Often  spoken,  often  heard, 
Written,  printed,  read  and  spelt, 
Mighty  only  when  't  is  felt ! 
'T  is  the  earnest  word  that  tells, 
'T  is  the  earnest  stroke  that  fells, 
'T  is  the  earnest  soul  that 's  strong, 
'T  is.the  earnest  life  that 's  long  ; 
Soul  of  action,  spring  of  thought, 
Working  miracles  of  nought, 
Throwing  years  into  an  hour, 
Volumes  may  not  tell  its  power ! 


FIRESIDE    ANGELS. 


FIKESIDE  ANGELS. 

THE  fireside  is  a  holy  place, 

A  consecrated  spot, 
We  daily  meet  with  angels  here, 

We  see  and  know  them  not ; 
It  may  be  that  a  sister's  form 

Is  but  a  seraph's  guise, 
An  angel's  soul  may  look  on  us 

From  out  a  mother's  eyes. 

We  may  not  see  the  shining  form, 

Or  hear  the  rustling  wing, 
Our  angels  may  not  sing  the  songs 

That  other  angels  sing ; 
And  we  may  daily  kneel  with  them 

And  hear  their  fervent  tone, 
And  never  dream  that  we  have  bowed 

With  angels  at  the  throne. 

It  may  be  that  our  watching  eyes 

Have  missed  one  gentle  face, 
It  may  be  that  the  firelight  shines 

Upon  one  vacant  place ; 
We  hear  again  the  low,  sweet  voice, 

We  feel  her  presence  near, 
And  know  't  was  one  of  finer  clay 

That  tarried  with  us  here. 


FIRESIDE    ANGELS. 


Perchance  we  marked  the  changing  cheek, 

The  earnest,  thrilling  gaze, 
We  saw  she  was  not  as  the  rest, 

And  wondered  at  her  ways : 
We  could  not  tell  what  made  her  so, 

For  she  was  always  thus, 
And  so  we  said  within  our  hearts, 

She  is  but  one  of  us. 

A  joy  and  yet  a  mystery, 

She  lingered  by  our  side, 
We  saw  her  when  her  cheek  grew  pale, 

We  saw  her  when  she  died  ; 
And  when  they  heaped  the  cold  damp  clods 

Above  her  senseless  breast, 
We  knew  't  was  one  with  shining  wings 

They  laid  away  to  rest. 

It  is  the  spirit  of  the  skies, 

The  sweet  and  patient  trust, 
That  forms  a  seraph  of  the  clay, 

An  angel  of  the  dust ; 
And  when  we  see  a  pale,  meek  brow, 

A  gentle,  love-lit  eye, 
These  doubting  hearts  of  ours  may  know, 

An  angel  passes  by ! 

They  come  not  to  the  homes  of  earth, 

Clothed  in  immortal  light, 
No  dazzling  forms  in  floating  robes 

Burst  on  the  raptured  sight ; 


UNWRITTEN    POETRY. 


With  words  of  love  and  tenderness, 
With  meek  and  quiet  mien, 

They  come  to  us  as  came  of  old 
The  lowly  Nazarene, 

Yet  though  our  angels  walk  with  us 

Unheeded  and  unknown, 
When  God  shall  make  His  jewels  up, 

And  seal  them  for  His  own, 
Full  many  a  lowly  one  of  earth 

Who  walks  in  meekness  here, 
Shall  drop  the  mantle  of  the  dust 

And  shine  an  angel  there ! 


UNWKITTEN  POETKY, 

A  SILENT  poem  is  a  holy  thing ! 

It  hath  a  pure,  unuttered,  quiet  joy, 

An  inborn  music  tremulous  and  low, 

Breathing  its  bliss  into  the  swelling  heart 

Until  the  soul  grows  hushed  beneath  the  spell, 

And  the  deep  feeling  finds  no  gushing  voice, 

To  pour  the  burden  of  its  rapture  out. 

The  soul  of  poetry  hath  no  home  in  words ! 

Creation's  face  is  radiant  with  its  seal, 

The  glad  earth  folds  it  to  her  thrilling  heart, 

The  bending  heavens  drink  in  its  wondrous  light, 

And  the  fair  page  of  God's  unwritten  book, 


UN  WRITTEN    POETRY. 


- 


Glows  into  glory  'neath  its  kindling  smile. 
The  gorgeous  clouds  are  floating  melodies, 
The  springing  grass  a  waving  harmony, 
The  sunshine  is  a  song,  the  wind  a  strain, 
The  flowers  are  poems  and  the  stars  are  hymns, 
And  the  deep  voice  of  Nature's  blended  choir 
One  grand  majestic  anthem. 

Bound  us  floats 

The  silent  gladness  of  that  wordless  song, 
And,  like  a  bird,  the  chainless  spirit  soars 
Away  beyond  the  veiling  clouds  of  earth, 
Drinks  in  the  music  of  the  rolling  spheres, 
Scales  the  proud  nights  of  Fancy's  airy  realm, 
And  revels  in  a  bright  enchanted  world. 
Then  come  the  crowding  thoughts,  so  deep  with  joy, 


The  being  bows  beneath  their  glorious  weight, 
And  the  full  heart  throbs  with  a  new  delight, 
And  strives  to  teach  the  lip  a  fitting  voice, 
To  breathe  its  burden,  so  that  all  may  feel. 
Oh,  say  not  poetry  lives  in  pleasant  sounds, 
And  ripples  out  its  free  melodious  soul, 
In  the  clear  warble  of  a  running  rhyme  ! 
There  is  a  native  chime  and  melody 
In  the  sweet  flow  of  silver  singing  words, 
And  the  glad  thought  unfolded  to  the  gaze, 
The  bright  creation  of  the  poet  mind, 
Hath  much  of  beauty  in  its  graceful  guise 
Of  mellow  sounds  and  numbers  soft  and  low.    . 
Yet  these  are  but  the  living  fountain's  spray, 
"  The  sparkling  foam  upon  the  ocean's  breast, 


UNWRITTEN    POETRY. 


The  dim  revealing  of  the  inner  light 

That  throws  a  halo  o'er  a  thing  of  joy, 

And  glorifies  the  beautiful  of  earth. 

The  words  that  glow  upon  the  printed  page, 

That  chain  the  eye  and  wake  the  answering  thought, 

Are  as  the  shadow  of  the  glory-light, 

Circling  the  radiant  heaven  of  the  soul, 

The  far-off  echo  of  the  rapturous  voice, 

Forever  singing  in  the  poet's  heart. 

Oh,  there  are  those  within  this  world  of  ours, 

To  whom  the  very  air  grows  tremulous 

And  quivers  with  the  breath  of  song — and  yet 

They  live,  o'ershadow'd  by  the  voiceless  awe 

That  dares  not  speak !    Aye,  many  a  soul  hath  thrill'd  £>j 

uLu 

To  the  low  music  swept  from  Poesy's  harp, 

And  yet  the  lip  was  mute !  the  silent  seal 

Was  set  and  fixed  upon  the  tongue  of  flame, 

And  the  high  spirit  spurned  the  feeble  words 

That  fain  would  chain  and  bind  the  burning  thought, 

And  trusted  rather  to  the  kindling  eye, 

And  flushing  cheek,  and  glowing,  speaking  face, 

To  tell  how  deep,  how  eloquent  a  joy 

Was  gushing  in  the  heart. 

Oh,  they  are  blest 

Who  find  a  glory  where  the  dimmer  eye 
Sees  nought  of  loveliness  !  who  weave  of  life 
A  song  of  sunshine  and  a  psalm  of  praise, 
Who  gather  music  from  the  singing  stars, 


THE    RAIN. 


And  bow  the  knee  where'er  the  holy  seal 
Of  Beauty's  kiss  is  set !     Yea,  they  are  blest 
Though  the  rapt  soul  hath  never  told,  its  joy, 
Nor  the  sealed  lip  breathed  out  one  thrilling  tone, 
That  spoke  the  blessedness  that  reigned  within ! 
The  inner  light  shall  purer,  softer  glow, 
The  inner  music  clearer,  deeper  swell, 
Until  beyond  the  shadowy  land  of  Death, 
The  prisoned  voice  shall  wake  to  melody, 
And  swell  the  chorus  of  the  angels'  song. 
There  the  mute  seal  from  the  glad  spirit  loosed, 
Shall  melt  away  before  the  breath  of  God ; 
There  Poesy's  soul,  breathing  its  native  air, 
Shall  drink  the  clear,  eternal  sunshine  in, 
And  the  hushed  heart  shall  find  a  seraph-strain, 
To  hymn  the  rapture  of  its  perfect  praise ! 


THE  KAIK 

LIKE  a  gentle  joy  descending, 
To  the  earth  a  glory  lending, 

Comes  the  pleasant  rain ; 
Fairer  now  the  flowers  are  growing, 
Fresher  now  the  winds  are  blowing, 
Swifter  now  the  streams  are  flowing, 

Gladder  waves  the  grain  ; 


50  THE    KAIN. 


Grove  and  forest,  field  and  mountain, 
Bathing  in  the  crystal  fountain, 
Drinking  in  the  inspiration, 
Offer  up  a  glad  oblation 
All  around,  about,  above  us, 
Things  we  love  and  things  that  love  us, 
Bless  the  gentle  rain. 

Children's  voices  now  are  ringing, 
Some  are  shouting,  some  are  singing, 

On  the  way  to  school  ; 
And  the  beaming  eye  shines  brighter, 
And  the  bounding  pulse  beats  lighter, 
As  the  little  feet  grow  whiter, 

Paddling  in  the  pool  ; 
0  the  rain  !  it  is  a  blessin 


, 


Sweeter  than  the  sun's  caressing, 
Softer,  gentler  —  yea,  in  seeming, 
Gladder  than  the  sunlight  gleaming, 
To  the  children  shouting,  singing, 
With  the  voices  clear  and  ringing, 
Goin    to  the  school. 


Beautiful,  and  still,  and  holy, 
Like  the  spirit  of  the  lowly, 

Comes  the  quiet  rain  ; 
JT  is  a  fount  of  joy,  distilling, 
And  the  lyre  of  earth  is  trilling, 
With  a  music  low  and  thrilling, 

Swelling  to  a  strain  ; 


THE    EAIN.  51  yj 


Nature  opens  wide  her  bosom, 
Bursting  buds  begin  to  blossom, 
To  her  very  soul  't  is  stealing. 
All  the  springs  of  life  unsealing, 
Singing  stream  and  rushing  river, 
Drink  it  in  and  praise  the  Giver 
Of  the  blessed  rain. 

Lo  !  the  clouds  are  slowly  parting, 
Sudden  gleams  of  light  are  darting 

Through  the  falling  rain  ; 
Bluer  now  the  sky  is  beaming, 
Softer  now  the  light  is  streaming, 
With  its  shining  fingers  gleaming 

'Mid  the  golden  grain  ; 
Greener  now  the  grass  is  springing, 
Sweeter  now  the  birds  are  singing, 
Clearer  now  the  shout  is  ringing, 
Earth,  the  purified,  rejoices 
With  her  silver-sounding  voices, 
Sparkling,  flashing  like  a  prism, 
In  the  beautiful  baptism 

Of  the  blessed  rain. 


THE    BLIND    BARD    OF    ENGLAND. 


THE  BLIND  BARD  OF  ENGLAND. 

WHEN  we  unlatch  the  gate  of  dreams, 

And  step  within  the  mystic  land, 
A  floating  halo  round  us  streams, 

And  shadowy  shapes,  an  airy  band, 
Go  wandering  through  the  spirit's  aisles, 
And  gleams  of  light  and  sudden  smiles 
Too  radiant  for  the  waking  gaze, 
Flash  through  the  dim  and  dreamy  haze — 
We  sleep,  we  dream,  another  world 

Unfolds  unto  the  wondering  mind, 
Our  eyes  are  shut,  we  cannot  see, 

Yet  who  shall  say  that  we  are  blind  ? 

Milton !  a  deeper,  darker  seal 

Shut  out  from  thee  the  holy  light, 
To  thee  the  sun  and  stars  were  veiled, 

To  thee  the  noon  was  as  the  night ! 
The  music  of  the  morning  bells 

Was  but  the  solemn  vesper  chime, 
Nor  summer's  green,  nor  autumn's  gold 

Came  with  the  rolling  sounds  of  time ; 
The  tinted  clouds,  the  stars,  the  flowers, 

The  gorgeous  earth,  the  bending  skies, 
The  glory  of  this  world  of  ours, 

Were  shadowed  from  thy  sightless  eyes, 


THE    BLIND    BARD    OF.  ENGLAND. 


No  ray  of  sunshine,  pure  and  blest, 

On  thy  benighted  vision  stole, 
Yet  shall  we  say  that  darkness  swayed 

Its  sable  scepter  o'er  thy  soul  ? 
Were  the  black  clouds  of  rayless  night, 

Pavilion  of  the  god-like  mind 
That  soared  above  the  stars  of  heaven  ? 

Thou  Bard  of  England,  wert  thou  blind  ? 

Nay !  Milton  only  shut  his  eyes 
And  looked  away  to  Paradise, 
Just  as  when  sleep,  the  holy  thing, 

Veils  from  our  eyes  the  sunny  gleams, 
Folds  o'er  the  heart  its  loving  wing, 

We  look  into  the  land  of  dreams. 
What  light  from  the  celestial  goal 
Streamed  down  upon  the  poet's  soul ! 
What  radiance  from  the  burning  throne 
Around  him,  like  a  glory,  shone ! 
He  soared  unto  the  morning  land, 

Faith  winged  his  flight,  he  could  not  doubt, 
He  saw  the  golden  gates  thrown  back, 

The  angels  going  in  and  out — 
The  splendor  of  thej  shining  streets, 

The  inner  portals  opened  wide, 
The  pavement  like  a  jasper  sea, 

The  river's  clear  and  crystal  tide 
That  wanders  'mid  the  fadeless  bowers, 

And  winding  through  the  midst  of  Heaven 
Rolls  o'er  the  fair  Elysian  flowers — 


THE    BLIND    BARD    OF    ENGLAND. 

He  dared  to  lift  the  mystic  veil 
That  shadows  out  the  great  unseen, 

The  Spirit's  gladj  triumphant  gaze, 
Fell  not  before  the  dazzling  sheen, 

The  eye  of  the  immortal  mind 

Was  never  dim — was  Milton  blind  ? 


A  thousand  times  more  blind  than  he, 
Are  they  who  seeing,  never  see, 
Whose  eyes  drink  in  the  pleasant  light, 
Whose  souls  sit  robed  in  starless  night — 
A  thousand  times  more  blest  the  seal 

That  shuts  the  sunlight  from  the  blind, 
Than  the  eternal,  sunless  cloud 

That  shrouds  the  vision  of  the  mind ! 
Oh  !  if  the  world  be  veiled  away, 

If  sunj  nor  star,  upon  us  shine, 
If  ne'er  returns  the  dawning  day, 

Nor  light  of  "  human  face  divine," 
Yet,  if  the  beatific  seal 

That  shut  the  Bard  of  England's  eyes, 
Give  unto  us  the  quenchless  ray 

That  beamed  upon  him  from  the  skies ; 
Yea,  if  the  wondrous  gift  be  ours 

To  talk  with  angels  as  with  men, 
To  con  the  mystic  lore  of  Heaven, 

And  write  it  with  a  flaming  pen, 
Like  Milton's  could  the  restless  soul 

Away  its  chafing  fetters  fling, 
And  in  the  pure,  transparent  sea 


THE    BLIND    BARD    OF    ENGLAND. 

Of  God's  own  glory  bathe  its  wing, 
And  as  he  sung,  oh  could  we  sing, 
Then  blindness  were  a  blessed  thing ! 

Call  him  not  blind,  to  whom  't  was  given 
To  soar  away  from  earth  to  Heaven ! 
The  splendor  of  the  noon-day  sun 

Is  dim  unto  the  clearer  light, 
The  holy  flood  that  inward  shone 

And  planted  there  a  seraph's  sight, 
The  lamp  of  Grod  was  in  his  soul, 

And  clouds  and  darkness  fled  away, 
As  melt  the  early  morning  mists, 

Before  the  open  eye  of  day. 
He  looked  where  others  dared  not  look, 

He  saw,  yet  not  as  others  see, 
"With  Faith's  clear  eye  he  gazed  away, 

And  pierced  the  clouds  of  mystery ; 
When  from  the  dazzling  scene  he  turned, 
The  poet's  soul  within  him  burned, 
The  thrilling  joy  that  silent  came, 
'Woke  there  a  bright  celestial  flame, 
The  poetry  of  his  master  mind, 

The  native  music,  deep  and  strong, 
Burst  forth  in  one  undying  strain, 

One  rapturous  tide  of  holy  song. 
Oh,  not  as  others  sing,  he  sung, 
His  lyre  was  ag  an  angel's  tongue ! 
He  saw  and  told  of  things  unseen, 


THE    BLIND    BARD    OF    ENGLAND. 

Of  highest  Heaven,  of  deepest  Hell, 
Till  wondering  nations  bowed  entranced, 

Awed  by  the  strange  and  solemn  spell. 
What  high  mysterious  power  was  this, 

With  daring  hand  to  lift  the  screen, 
And  rend  away  the  mystic  veil, 

Between  the  seen  and  the  unseen ! 
What  wondrous  skill,  untold,  divine, 

That  bold  and  fearless  pen  had  taught 
To  paint  the  mighty  scenes  of  strife, 

Where  devils  with  archangels  fought ! 
Had  one  descended  from  the  skies, 
A  seraph  in  a  mortal's  guise  ? 
Had  he  laid  off  his  shining  robes, 

And  mingled  with  them,  as  a  man, 
Who  on  the  battle  plains  of  Heaven, 

Had  once  with  Gabriel  led  the  van  ? 
Nay !  't  was  the  spirit  of  our  God 

That  breathed  upon  his  soul  the  fire, 
That  thrilled  his  spirit's  quivering  chords, 

And  woke  the  Bard  of  England's  lyre ! 

Immortal  Milton !  thou  hast  tuned 
Thy  harp  unto  a  nobler  strain, 

Yea,  as  of  old,  the  master  hand, 

Sweeps  o'er  the  trembling  strings  again, 

The  soul's  deep  music,  full  and  clear, 

Swells  higher  now,  and  yet  not  here  ! 

Away  beyond  the  arching  skies 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    SONG. 


With  Heaven's  high  minstrels  thou  dost  bow, 
The  film  has  faded  from  thine  eyes, 

And  face  to  face  thou  seest  now, 
No  shadow  veils  the  seraph-band, 
There  are  no  blind  within  that  land, 
Is  or  sun,  nor  star,  nor  noon,  nor  night, 
Thou  art  with  God,  and  "  God  is  LIGHT." 


THE  SPIRIT  OF   SONG. 

IT  comes  to  me  in  the  early  day 

When  the  bright  clouds  float  on  their  morning  way  ; 

It  comes  to  me  when  the  skies  are  fair, 

And  a  bird-song  swells  on  the  summer  air, 

When  the  sunshine  floats  with  a  quivering  smile 

To  the  emerald  heart  of  the  forest  aisle  ; 

It  comes  with  its  wealth  of  radiant  dreams, 

Nor  the  tint  that  glows,  nor  the  light  that  gleams, 

May  bind  my  soul  with  so  sweet  a  spell 

As  the  Spirit  of  Song  I  love  so  well. 

It  comes  to  me  when  the  red  light  plays, 

And  the  bright  waves  blush  in  the  sunset's  blaze, 

When  the  gorgeous  glow  of  the  clouds  that  lie, 

Like  an  island  group,  in  the  dreamy  sky, 

Flashes  softly  down  on  the  waters  blue, 

And  wreathes  a  garland  of  glorious  hue, 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    SONG. 


And  a  spell  more  bright  than  the  flashing  light, 
And  a  wreath  more  fair  than  the  cloud-wreath  there, 
It  weaves  for  me,  as  it  floats  along, 
The  gushing  voice  of  the  Soul  of  Song. 

It  comes  to  me  in  the  stilly  night, 

When  the  sky  is  clear  and  the  stars  are  bright, 

When  the  moonlight  silvers  the  waving  trees, 

And  a  soft  strain  steals  on  the  floating  breeze, 

When  the  beautiful  heaven  hath  lost  its  flush, 

And  the  air  is  still  with  a  holy  hush — 

It  comes  to  me  and  I  know  not  why,, 

For  my  dreams  grow  bright  and  my  heart  swells  high, 

With  a  sudden  joy  and  a  new  delight, 

When  it  sings  to  me  in  the  starry  night. 

O'er  the  golden  chords  of  my  spirit's  lyre, 

Its  fingers  sweep,  and  a  music  fire 

Swells  softly  up  from  the  trembling  strings, 

A  note  of  the  rapturous  strain  it  brings, 

And  there  comes  a  joy  to  my  throbbing  heart, 

That  forms  of  my  being  the  purest  part, 

Till  my  soul  grows  glad  with  an  unbreathed  prayer, 

And  I  kneel  and  utter  its  burden  there, 

When  the  star-light  rests  on  the  waters  clear, 

And  none  but  the  (rod  of  love  is  near. 

It  comes  to  me  when  the  wild  winds  moan, 
And  my  sad  heart  thrills  with  an  answering  tone, 
It  comes  when  the  chime  of  a  distant  bell 
Is  borne  on  the  air  with  a  silvery  swell, 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    SONG. 


When  a  rippling  laugh  and  a  merry  shout, 
And  a  gay  glad  voice,  in  their  joy,  ring  out, 
When  the  wind-harp  plays  'mid  the  tasseled  trees, 
And  their  banners  wave  in  the  rustling  breeze— 
It  comes  to  me  but  it  stays  hot  long, 
The  singing  voice  of  the  Soul  of  Song. 

It  breathes  on  my  heart  in  the  hour  of  prayer, 
And  wakens  a  heavenly  music  there ; 
It  shadows  my  soul  with  its  shining  wing 
And  whispers  of  many  a  beautiful  thing ; 
It  sings  a  strain  of  the  land  afar 
Where  the  Saviour  dwells  and  the  angels  are^ 
A  strain  so  blest  that  a  thrilling  smile 
§|  Rests  softly  down  on  my  heart  the  while, 

1  AJ 

And  a  new  light  glows  and  a  sunshine  lives, 
In  the  music  sweet  that  the  Spirit  gives. 

I  may  not  tell  why  it  comes  to  me, 
'T  is  a  strange  and  beautiful  mystery  t 
It  hath  wreathed  a  joy  for  the  dream  of  life, 
It  hath  stilled  the  storm,  it  hath  hushed  the  strife  : 
Oh !  not  for  the  wealth  of  the  glittering  minei, 
Would  I  lose  the  light  of  its  smile  divine, 
I  would  feel  the  hush  of  the  angel's  breath, 
Till  my  brow  grows  damp  with  the  dews  of  death, 
Till  the  life-dream  fades,  with  its  mystic  spell, 
And  the  strains  of  a  deeper  music  swell  • 
I  would  hear  it  then  'mid  the  seraph-throng, 
Jf  The  glorious  voice  of  the  Soul  of  Song. 


"WHO    ARE    THE    BLEST?" 


"WHO    ARE    THE    BLEST?" 

"WHO  are  the  blest?"  said  a  little  child, 
A  thing  so  fair  that  the  angels  smiled, 
As  he  knelt  him  down,  with  an  artless  grace, 
And  a  holy  light  on  his  meek,  young  face, 
When  the  dreamy  shades  of  the  twilight  dim 
Had  hushed  his  voice  to  a  low,  glad  hymn, 
And  stilled  the  gush  of  his  childish  glee, 
To  say  his  prayer  by  his  mother's  knee. 

"  Who  are  the  blest  ?"  and  the  earnest  eyes, 

In  the  tender  glow  of  the  twilight  skies, 

In  the  holy  hush  of  that  sabbath  night, 

Grew  deeper  still,  with  a  wondrous  light, 

And  he  looked  away  through  the  pensive  gloom, 

That  settled  down  o'er  the  cottage-room, 

Till  his  glance  beamed  bright,  with  a  strange  unrest, 

The  yearning  gaze  of  the  early  blest. 

"The  blest,  my  boy  ?"  and  the  mother  smiled, 
And  her  heart  went  out  to  her  sinless  child, 
And  her  eye  grew  dim  and  her  voice  grew  low, 
As  she  pushed  the  curls  from  his  fair  broad  brow ; 
For  she  thought  of  his  sweet  and  quiet  ways, 
And  turned  away  from  the  questioning  gaze, 
And  the  answer  fell  from  her  lips  apart, 
"The  blest,  my  boy,  are  the  pure  in  heart !" 


"WHO    ARE    THE    BLEST?" 


"  The  pure  in  heart !"  and  she  bowed  her  head, 
And  very  sweet  were  the  words  she  said, 
How  the  Saviour  would  love  her  precious  child, 
If  he  was  pleasant  and  meek  and  mild, 
And  the  waves  of  the  crystal  river  of  joy 
Should  flow  to  the  heart  of  her  own  little  boy — 
Then  his  warm,  soft  cheek  to  her  own  she  prest, 
And  told  him  a  story  about  the  blest. 

Closer  she  folded  the  little  one, 

And  talked  to  him  long  in  a  quiet  tone, 

Of  the  glorious  light  of  the  City  of  God, 

Of  the  golden  streets  and  the  pavement  broad, 

Till  the  long  lids  drooped  o'er  the  wondering  eyes, 

And  shut  out  the  light  of  their  soft  surprise, 

And  he  slept  on  her  bosom  and  dreamed  the  rest, 

Of  the  beautiful  story  about  the  blest. 

'Tis  Sabbath  eve — through  the  open  door 
The  moonbeams  fall  on  the  cottage  floor, 
In  the  dreamy  hush  of  the  silver  light 
The  mother  is  sitting  alone  to  night ! 
Her  meek  heart  bows  as  she  lifts  her  eyes, 
And  looks  away  to  the  burning  skies, 
And  a  deep  joy  steals  to  her  tranquil  breast, 
For  the  child  she  hath  loved  is  with  the  blest. 


AN    AUTUMN    REVERIE. 


AN   AUTUMN   KEVEKIE. 

I  LOVE  the  faint  and  dreamy  haze, 
That  foldeth  in  the  autumn  days. 

I  wander  from  the  Babel  din, 
And  drink  the  mellow  sunshine  in. 

It  stills  my  throbbing  heart's  unrest, 
A  pleasant  sadness  fills  my  breast. 

I  sit  beneath  the  rustling  trees 
And  listen  to  the  whispering  breeze. 

Half  mournfully  it  talks  to  me, 
Of  all  that  was  and  will  not  be. 

Through  the  dim  years  I  look  away, 
I  'm  with  my  sisters  now  at  play. 

We  're  in  the  grand,  old  chestnut  grove, 
The  place  that  most  of  all  we  love. 

"We  're  looking  upward,  one  and  all, 
And  at  our  feet  the  brown  nuts  fall. 

We  shout  aloud,  How  beautiful ! 
And  fill  our  tiny  aprons  full. 


AN    AUTUMN    REVERIE. 


Upon  the  green  grass,  side  by  side, 
The  gathered  store  we  now  divide. 

The  grove  rings  with  our  laughter  wild, 
How  sweet  it  is  to  be  a  child  ! 

The  spell  is  o'er — the  dream  has  flown, 
I  'm  sitting  silent  and  alone. 

Mine  eyes  are  swimming  now  in  tears, 
I  turn  me  from  those  olden  years. 

The  faint  air  fans  my  glowing  cheek ; 
My  heart  is  full— I  cannot  speak. 

The  rapture  of  that  early  bliss, 
Fades  in  the  solemn  joy  of  this. 

Unto  the  outer  world  I  turn, 
And  holy  lessons  here  I  learn. 

The  crimson  of  these  maple  trees, 
'T  is  like  the  flush  of  fell  disease. 

The  withered  leaves  that  downward  fall, 
They  'mind  me  of  the  shroud  and  pall. 

The  blue  of  these  autumnal  skies, 
It  makes  me  think  of  Paradise. 


DEATH. 


The  glory  of  these  autumn  days, 

It  fills  my  thankful  heart  with  praise. 


I  kneel  me  down  upon  the  sod, 
And  pour  it  in  the  ear  of  God. 


DEATH. 

DEATH  is  the  shutting  of  a  flower, 
The  closing  of  a  mournful  hour, 
The  paling  of  a  coral  lip, 
The  hushing  of  a  bounding  step, 
The  dimming  of  a  starry  eye, 
The  sev'ring  of  a  mystic  tie, 
The  breaking  of  a  brittle  thread, 
The  robing  for  a  narrow  bed, 
The  bursting  of  the  bonds  of  sin, 
The  going  out,  the  entering  in, 
The  ending  of  a  fearful  strife, 
The  dawning  of  immortal  life ! 

Death  is  the  interval  between 
The  visible  and  the  unseen — 
The  pale  and  mystic  realm  that  lies 
Between  our  world  and  Paradise. 
Death  is  the  triumph  hour  of  all 
Who  wait  to  hear  the  Master's  call, 


RURAL    LIFE.  65 


The  laying  of  the  armor  down, 
The  putting  on  the  victor's  crown, 
The  finale  of  the  things  that  be, 
The  sunrise  of  eternity ! 
The  ceasing  of  the  tempter's  sway, 
The  Christian's  Coronation-day ! 

How  blest,  how  beautiful,  the  faith 
That  falters  not  in  view  of  Death ! 
That  lifts  the  trembling,  sinking  soul, 
And  points  it  to  the  dazzling  goal, 
That  throws  a  halo  o'er  the  tomb, 
And  gives  a  glory  to  its  gloom — 
That  looks  beyond  the  threatening  tide, 
Sees  Heaven's  glad  portals  opening  wide, 
Sees  the  strong  hand  reached  out  to  save, 
Clasps  it,  and  triumphs  o'er  the  grave ! 
On  the  soul's  altar  glows  the  fire, 
The  heavenly  hope,  the  high  desire, 
The  pure,  the  bright,  celestial  flame, 
That  finds  a  life  in  Jesus'  name. 


KUKAL  LIFE. 

in  the  princely  palace  home, 
With  stately  walls  and  gilded  dome, 
Where,  through  the  live-long  summer  day, 
The  glad  sunshine  is  veiled  away 


RURAL    LIFE. 


Lest  it  should  stream  too  clear  and  bright 

For  eyes  that  shun  the  blessed  light, 

And  like  the  night-unfolding  flowers, 

Glearn  only  in  the  star-lit  hours — 

Not  in  the  lofty  halls  of  pride 

Where  music  floats  at  even-tide, 

Where  gorgeous  lights  are  softly  streaming 

And  jewels  flash  and  pearls  are  gleaming, 

Where  love  finds  speech  in  meaning  glances 

And  low  words  breathe  the  heart's  romances, 

And  song  and  revelry  resound, 

May  peace,  the  spirit's  gem,  be  found. 

Out  in  the  sunshine,  where  the  flowers 
Breathe  perfume  on  the  summer  hours, 
Where  wood-bines  wreathe  the  cottage  eaves, 
And  birds  glance  in  and  out  the  leaves ; 
Out  in  God's  great  and  glorious  world 

Where  rise  the  everlasting  hills, 
Where  broad,  majestic  rivers  roll, 

And  grandeur  all  the  being  fills ; 
Out  in  the  country,  where  the  soul 

Holds  converse  high  with  Nature's  God, 
Scorns  the  vain  world's  unblest  control, 

And  spurns  it  as  the  senseless  clod  ; 
Here  taught  by  every  living  thing, 
By  flowers  that  bloom  and  birds  that  sing, 
By  all  around,  about,  above, 
To  glorify  the  God  of  love, 


RURAL     LIP  E.  67 


The  soul  expands,  the  heart  beats  high 
And  pleasure  lights  the  kindling  eye, 
There  breathes  no  sound  of  sin  or  strife, 
And  blessings  crown  the  rural  life, 

What  though  no  proud  and  costly  dome 
Towers  o'er  the  farmer's  rustic  home, 
What  though  his  ample  brow  is  tanned, 
And  brown  and  hard  his  honest  hand, 
The  song  of  birds,  the  breath  of  flowers, 
Make  poetry  of  his  toiling  hours, 
And  when  the  golden  sheaves  are  bound, 

When  song  and  sunshine  fade  away, 
And  full  and  clear  the  harvest  moon 

Shuts  softly  out  the  dying  day  ; 
When  night  comes  o'er  the  quiet  skies 

And  stars  light  up  the  azure  dome, 
WTith  peaceful  heart  and  cheerful  step, 

He  hies  him  to  his  happy  home. 
Young,  bird-like  voices,  sweet  and  clear, 
Breathe  music  on  his  list'ning  ear, 
He  feels  the  soft  and  downy  clasp 

Of  tiny  arms  around  his  neck, 
A  fragrant  breath  is  on  his  brow 

And  close  to  his  a  velvet  cheek. 
Now  seated  'mid  his  little  throng, 

His  youngest  prattler  on  his  knee, 
His  other  jewels  clustered  round, 

What  monarch  is  more  blest  than  he  ! 


• 


LJ 


RURAL    LIFE. 


Oh,  ye  who  scorn  the  sons  of  toil, 

The  earnest,  noble,  mighty  men, 
Whose  brown  hands  till  the  grateful  soil, 

Whose  homes  are  in  the  vale  and  glen  ; 
Oh,  ye  who  pass  him  proudly  by, 

Whose  broad  brow  bears  the  seal  divine, 
Because,  forsooth,  he  hath  not  bowed, 

A  worshipper  at  Fashion's  shrine  ! 
Go  forth  into  the  pleasant  fields, 

When  early  wakes  the  rosy  morn, 
When  stars  have  set  and  sunrise  gilds 

The  growing  grain  and  rustling  corn ; 
Look  o'er  the  fragrant,  flowery  meads, 

Deep  seas  of  living,  waving  green, 
The  glory  of  the  harvest  hills, 

The  valleys  in  the  distance  seen ; 
And  think  ye  't  was  a  lily  hand 
That  till'd  the  broad  and  beauteous  land  ? 
And  think  ye  one  of  slender  frame, 

Of  sneering  lip  and  haughty  brow, 
Whose  glory  is  a  sounding  name, 

Whose  dainty  fingers  spurn  the  plow, 
Ere  felt  a  joy  more  pure,  more  blest, 
Than  glows  within  the  farmer's  breast  ? 

0  rural  scenes !  0  summer  hours ! 
0  sunny  hill-sides  starr'd  with  flowers ! 
0  waving  woodlands,  crystal  streams  ! 
0  bird- songs  rippling  wild  and  free ! 


WATER. 


Ye  float  around  us  in  our  dreams, 

Ye  weave  of  life  a  melody ! 
We  call  them  blest  whose  pathway  leads 
O'er  velvet  lawns  and  waving  meads, 
Whose  tent  is  pitched,  whose  bower  is  made 
Out  in  the  country's  sylvan  shade, 
Whose  pavement  is  the  green  glad  earth, 

Whose  roof  the  sky  we  daily  see, 
Whose  poems  are  the  rocks  and  hills, 

Whose  music,  Nature's  minstrelsy  ! 
Here  taught  by  all  around,  above, 
To  glorify  the  God  of  love. 
The  soul  expands,  the  heart  beats  high, 
And  pleasure  lights  the  kindling  eye, — 
The  spirit  of  repose  comes  by, — 
There  breathes  no  sound  of  sin  or  strife, 
And  blessings  crown  the  rural  life. 


WATEK. 

THERE  is  gladness  in  the  water. 

Beautiful  and  cool  and  clear, 
Welling  from  the  heart  of  Nature, 

For  the  peasant  and  the  peer ; 
Gleaming  in  the  polished  dipper, 

Sparkling  in  the  brimming  glass, 
Flashing  in  the  pleasant  sunshine, 

Winding  througli  the  waving  grass ; 


70  WATER. 


Gushing  from  the  breezy  mountain. 
Babbling  down  the  sylvan  dell, 

Leaping  from  the  crystal  fountain, 
Bubbling  from  the  mossy  well. 

There  is  beauty  in  the  water, 

There  is  life  and  health  and  joy, 
Beauty  for  the  dark-eyed  daughter, 

Gladness  for  the  red-cheeked  boy ; 
Springing  step  and  graceful  motion, 

Wild  and  airy,  free  and  light, 
Glowing  face  and  bounding  pulses, 

Dancing  eyes  forever  bright^ 
It  will  give  you,  oh  the  water^ 

Bubbling  beauty,  gurgling  joy  ! 
Beauty  for  the  dark-eyed  daughter, 

Gladness  for  the  red^cheeked  boy, 

There  is  music  in  the  water, 

Music  in  its  singing  tide, 
In  its  clear  and  crystal  beauty, 

Bippling  down  the  mountain's  side ; 
There  is  music  in  its  gushing, 

There  is  rhythm  in  its  flow, 
Gliding  through  the  quiet  valleys, 

With  a  murmur  glad  and  low ; 
In  the  meadows  softly  walking, 

With  its  cool  and  blessed  feet, 
Through  the  forest  softly  talking 

In  a  whisper  hushed  and  sweet. 


WATER. 


There  is  healing  in  the  water 

Welling  from  the  limpid  spring 
Stainless  in  its  flowing  freedom, 

Health  and  blessedness  it  brings ; 
Tuning  all  the  spirit's  music 

To  the  gladness  of  its  strains, 
Sending  back  the  purple  life-tide, 

Bounding,  circling  through  the  veins. 
Oh,  the  healing  of  the  water, 

Fresh  and  sparkling  from  the  spring ! 
'T  is  the  soul  of  life  and  beauty, 

'T  is  a  pure  and  blessed  thing ! 

There  is  blessing  in  the  water — 

Blessing  in  its  silver  flow, 
Whispering  through  the  waving  woodlands, 

Where  the  tasseled  birches  grow ; 
In  the  sunshine,  in  the  shadow, 

Winding  through  the  velvet  grass, 
In  the  large,  old-fashioned  dipper, 

In  the  dainty  modern  glass ; 
Gushing  from  the  breezy  mountain, 

Singing  down  the  sylvan  dell, 
Leaping  from  the  crystal  fountain, 

Bubbling  from  the  mossy  well. 


THE    SABBATH. 


THE    SABBATH. 

HAIL,  blessed  Sabbath !  season  sweet 
Of  rest  to  weary  mortals  given, 

When  Christians  kneel  at  Jesus'  feet, 
And  all  of  earth  seems  lost  in  Heaven ! 

The  children  of  the  Saviour  love 

This  holy,  consecrated  day, 
A  beacon  from  the  land  above, 

To  guide  them  in  the  narrow  way. 

The  bells  have  rung,  and  gently  now 
The  voice  of  prayer  ascends  on  high, 

Scarce  uttered — yet  though  soft  and  low, 
Borne  up  beyond  the  deep  blue  sky. 

A  tranquil  awe — a  silence  deep — 
Reigns  in  its  blessedness  abroad ; 

The  great  world's  strife  is  hushed  to  sleep, 
And  millions  bow  to  worship  God. 

0  solemn  Sabbath !  who  shall  dare 
Profane  thy  soul-subduing  rest  ? 

Mock  at  the  songs  of  praise  and  prayer, 
Or  scorn  the  glory  of  the  blest ! 

The  breathings  of  the  "  still,  small  voice  " 
Seem  speaking  to  the  peaceful  soul, 

Of  the  fair  land  where  saints  rejoice, 
And  endless  Sabbaths  onward  roll. 


THE    DYING    INFANT. 


God  of  the  Sabbath !  while  we  kneel 
With  lowly  hearts  before  Thy  throne, 

Thyself,  in  pard'ning  love,  reveal, 
And  kindly  seal  us  all  thine  own ! 


THE    DYING   INFANT. 

How  still  it  lies  !  how  calm  its  sweet  repose ! 
How  gently  now  the  weary  eyelids  close  ! 
How  faintly  beats  the  little  fluttering  heart ! 
The  sinless  spirit  struggles  to  depart. 
The  death-light  quivers  o'er  the  baby  brow, 
And  paler  grows  its  polished  whiteness  now. 
The  life-light  fades  from  out  the  azure  eyes, 
Mild  as  the  blue  of  fair  Italia's  skies. 
Hush !  softer,  fainter  falls  the  feeble  breath, 
Ah !  thou  art  near,  thou  cruel  victor,  DEATH  ! 

Now  all  is  o'er  !  the  gentle  babe  is  dead — 
Cold,  cold  it  lies,  the  spark  of  life  hath  fled  ; 
The  little  heart  is  still  and  pulseless  now, 
The  soft  bright  curls  upon  the  cherub  brow, 
That  shames  the  whiteness  of  his  snowy  shroud, 
Best  like  the  sunlight  on  a  silver  cloud ; 
The  tiny  hands  are  folded  on  his  breast, 
And  calmly  now  the  little  one  doth  rest, 
As  when  in  life  those  starry  eyes  did  close, 
To  dream  away  the  hours  of  long  repose. 

3»t 

il»3 


A    SKELETON. 


Sleep  on,  sweet  babe !  no  more  thou  'It  wake  to  life, 
For  thee  hath  ceased  earth's  sad  and  weary  strife, 
For  thee,  bright  one,  its  loveliness  hath  fled, 
And  thou  art  numbered  with  the  silent  dead ! 
Thy  life  was  short,  yet  gentle  as  the  flower 
That  blooms  to  wither  in  one  fleeting  hour ; 
Thou  wert  a  bud  too  fair  to  nestle  here, 
A  lamb  from  out  the  Saviour's  fold,  too  dear 
To  stray  from  Him,  in  this  cold  world  to  roam, 
His  eye  was  on  thee,  and  He  called  thee  home. 


A  SKELETON   IN   THE   NATIONAL 
HOUSE. 

WHEN  England  set  her  daring  foot 

Unbidden  on  our  strand, 
And  darkling  clouds,  in  gathering  gloom, 

Hung  o'er  our  cherished  land  ; 
When  rose  the  loud,  alarum  cry, 

That  woke  a  nation's  rest, 
And  roused  the  bright,  immortal  spark 

Within  the  freeman's  breast ; 

The  spirit  of  our  fathers  burned, 
The  flaming  tide  swelled  high, 

They  pledged,  by  all  that 's  pure,  their  faith, 
To  conquer,  or  to  die ! 


A    SKELETON. 


And  wThen  the  trumpet's  stirring  peal 
Woke  hill  and  mountain  glen, 

Forth  from  the  field  and  forest  came 
A  host  of  niighty  men. 

The  ploughboy  girded  on  his  sword, 

And  left  his  song  unsung, 
The  music  of  the  woodman's  axe 

Grew  silent  where  it  rung ; 
And  from  a  thousand  humble  homes 

Went  up  frail  woman's  prayer, 
As  fiery-hearted  youth  went  forth 

With  men  of  hoary  hair, 

Then  rose  the  sound  of  clashing  arms 
TT  From  many  a  blood-red  field, 

And  warmly  down  the  sunlight  flashed 

On  glittering  spear  and  shield ; 
The  waters  of  our  lakes  and  rills 

Were  dyed  with  crimson  stains, 
The  battle-cloud  was  on  our  hills, 

Its  smoke  above  our  plains. 

The  Foeman's  track  was  oil  our  shores, 

His  white  sails  on  our  seas. 
And  Albion's  flaming  standard  waved 

Triumphant  in  the  breeze. 
The  black  cloud  darkened  o'er  our  land, 

And  fiercer  grew  the  strife, 
While  from  a  hundred  battle  plains 

Smoked  the  red  tide  of  life. 


A    SKELETON. 


0  Freedom !  't  was  thy  deathless  love 

That  thrilled  the  warrior's  soul, 
That  nerved  with  strength  his  failing  arm 

And  pointed  to  the  goal. 
And  when  the  serried  ranks  grew  thin 

Before  the  driving  shot, 
A  new  fire  lit  his  flashing  eye, 

His  strong  faith  wavered  not. 

A  sudden  glory  shone  around 

The  brow  of  Washington, 
And  clouds  and  darkness  rolled  away 

As  mist  before  the  sun. 
Up  from  the  hills  there  rose  a  shout 

That  made  the  welkin  ring, 
And  our  own  eagle  soared  on  high, 

A  free  and  chainless  thing. 

Forth  from  the  red,  baptismal  sea 

Our  virgin  nation  rose, 
No  shadow  on  her  stainless  soul, 

As  pure  as  mountain  snows ; 
The  glory  of  a  million  lips, 

The  boast  of  Liberty, 
The  wonder  of  a  gazing  world, 

The  watchword  of  the  FREE  ! 

0  Freedom !  thing  so  dearly  bought ! 

Thou  wert — but  thou  art  not ; 
There  festers  in  our  country's  heart 

A  loathsome  canker  spot. 


A     SKELETON. 


77  n 


And  to  our  burning  cheek  there  comes 
The  crimson  flush  of  shame, 

Since  we,  who  call  our  nation  free, 
But  mock  thy  sacred  name ! 

Beneath  our  very  stars  and  stripes, 

Where  sits  our  stately  bird, 
The  cruel  sound  of  falling  lash 

And  answering  shriek  is  heard. 
Aye,  on  the  storied  fields  of  eld, 

The  consecrated  plains. 
Where  Marion  led  his  gallant  hosts, 

Is  heard  the  clank  of  chains  ! 

We  glory  in  our  equal  rights, 

We  boast  our  righteous  laws, 
We  shout  until  the  vaulted  skies 

King  with  our  loud  huzzas ; 
And  yet,  within  this  lovely  land, 

Where  song  and  shout  resound, 
Goes  up  to  Heaven  the  mournful  wail 

Of  bleeding  brothers  bound. 

Beneath  the  warm  skies  of  the  South, 

Where  groves  of  citron  wave, 
And  spicy  breezes  fan  the  brow, 

They  scourge  the  fettered  slave. 
Wider  the  awful  shadow  spreads, 

In  vain  we  cry  Forbear ! 
And  tremble  lest  the  demon's  breath 

Should  taint  our  northern  air. 


A    SKELETON. 


We  groan  beneath  no  tyrant's  yoke, 

We  fear  no  foreign  foe, 
With  our  own  fingers  we  have  sown 

The  seed  of  future  woe ; 
A  million  hearts  send  up  the  prayer, 

Avenge  the  hated  wrong ! 
A  million  voices  lift  the  cry, 

How  long !  0  Lord  !  how  long ! 

0  Slavery  !  thy  blighting  curse 

Hath  sullied  our  fair  fame, 
The  glory  of  our  land  is  dimmed, 

A  stain  is  on  our  name ; 
Oppression's  iron  heel  profanes 

The  soil  our  fathers  trod, 
Our  nation's  burning  sin  invokes 

The  fearful  wrath  of  God. 

Father,  we  bow  low  in  the  dust, 

We  lift  our  hearts  to  thee, 
Strike  from  the  slave  his  galling  chains, 

And  set  the  captive  free ! 
Tear  down  this  false,  unholy  shrine 

And  let  an  altar  rise, 
Where  Freedom's  sacred  fire  shall  burn, 

Eternal  to  the  skies  ! 


THE    CHOLERA. 


THE    CHOLEBA. 

Lo  !  on  the  breeze  is  borne  a  mournful  strain, 
A  phantom  dread  hath  crossed  the  heaving  main, 
A  strange,  dark  cloud  hath  shadowed  our  fair  land ! 
The  severed  group,  the  broken  household  band, 
The  lonely  home,  the  desolated  hearth, 
Where  late  was  heard  the  voice  of  song  and  mirth ; 
The  ghastly  corpse,  the  hearse,  the  bier,  the  pall, 
The  grave-like  stillness  brooding  over  all ; 
The  tolling  bell,  the  heart's  unuttered  woe, 
These  mark  the  coming  of  the  dreaded  foe  ! 
Strange  words  are  whispered — how  they  chill  the 

heart ! 
Young  lips  grow  white  and  fair  forms  shuddering 

start ; 

From  palace  halls  and  mansions  dark  and  lone, 
Goes  wildly  up  one  deep,  sepulchral  groan ; 
Glad  tones  are  stilled,  cheeks  pale  with  boding  fear, 
The  fearful  scourge,  the  pestilence  is  near  ! 

O'er  the  gay  city  broods  a  mournful  gloom, 

From  the  wide  shadow  of  the  yawning  tomb ! 

Silence  is  in  her  courts :  the  ceaseless  strife, 

The  giddy  whirl,  the  circling  tides  of  life, 

Have  known  a  hush ;  the  lone,  deserted  street 

Echoes  no  more  with  tramp  of  hurrying  feet ; 

A  heavy  pall  each  silent  walk  doth  shroud,  ^  i 

Where  lately  thronged  the  busy,  bustling  crowd ; 


THE    CHOLERA. 


At  Fashion's  shrine  young  knees  no  longer  bow, 
And  Pleasure's  haunts  are  sad  and  cheerless  now. 
When  the  calm  night  unfolds  her  starry  wing, 
And  the  pale  moon  shines  forth  a  holy  thing, 
Knees  lowly  bend  that  never  knelt  before, 
And  song  and  revelry  are  heard  no  more. 
Music  hath  lost  its  wild,  "  voluptuous  swell," 
The  mystic  dance  its  fascinating  spell ; 
And  beauty  threads  no  more  the  'wildcring  maze, 
'Mid  flashing  lights  and  jewels'  gorgeous  blaze. 

Now  the  fond  mother  bends  above  her  child, 

And  calls  upon  her  Grod  in  accents  wild, 

The  cherub,  smiling  in  his  cradle  bed, 

Hath  felt  the  touch  of  Death  ;  the  color  fled 

From  the  warm  softness  of  the  rounded  cheek, 

A  tale  of  voiceless  agony  doth  speak 

To  her  who  kneels  beside  the  stricken  form, 

And  bows  in  anguish  to  the  fearful  storm. 

Close  to  her  breast  she  folds  the  writhing  frame, 

Kisses  the  lips  that  strive  to  lisp  her  name ; 

Her  heart  grows  sick,  her  faltering  strength  grows 

weak, 

A  sudden  paleness  settles  on  her  cheek, 
The  cold  sweat  gathers  on  her  death-struck  brow, 
And  livid  shadows  chill  its  whiteness  now. 
No  earthly  aid,  no  human  arm  may  save, 
And  child  and  mother  find  one  common  grave 
Is  there  no  power  to  stay  the  pending  doom  ? 
No  might  to  lock  the  portals  of  the  tomb  ? 


THE     CHOLEKA. 


O'er  our  fair  country  must  the  deluge  sweep, 
And  leave  the  soul  in  loneliness  to  weep  ? 
From  the  crushed  heart  goes  up  the  piercing  cry, 
'  As  if 't  would  rend  the  calm,  unheeding  sky. 
Father  of  mercies,  stay  the  avenging  hand, 
And  spare  the  altars  of  our  stricken  land ! 

Dare  we  lift  up  our  hearts  in  holy  prayer, 

And  call  on  God  in  pitying  love  to  spare  ? 

Is  there  no  "blush  upon  our  nation's  soul  ? 

O'er  her  fair  spirit  hath  no  shadow  stole  ? 

Have  we  not  cherished  in  our  land  a  foe 

That  brings  a  darker,  direr,  deadlier  woe  ? 

Is  there  no  plague-spot  on  our  nation's  creed, 

Than  e'en  the  blighting  pestilence  more  dread  ? 

A  blot  so  foul,  a  stain  with  sin  so  deep, 

That  o'er  its  blackness  angels  e'en  might  weep ! 

Go  ask  thy  brother,  writhing  'neath  his  chains, 

His  warm  flesh  quivering,  dyed  with  crimson  stains, 

Fears  he  the  shadow  of  the  awful  cloud 

That  wraps  the  mansions  of  the  great  and  proud  ? 

Is  life  to  him  a  sweet  and  pleasant  thing 

To  which  his  heart  in  anxious  hope  doth  cling  ? 

Nay  !  well  we  know  the  cold  and  joyless  grave, 

In  all  its  gloom,  is  welcome  to  the  SLAVE. 

By  the  new  light  within  his  sullen  eye, 

We  know  the  captive  deems  it  blest  to  die. 

Go  ask  the  victim  of  the  withering  blight 

That  shrouds  the  soul  in  one  eternal  night, 

He  who  hath  looked  upon  the  ruby  wine, 


THE    CHOLERA. 


And  bartered  all  that  maketh  man  divine ! 

Will  he  not  tell  thee  of  a  deeper  woe 

Than  e'en  the  stricken,  death-chilled  heart  may 

know  ? 

Mark  well  the  bloodless  cheek  and  sunken  eye — 
Who  bid  him  lay  his  noble  manhood  by  ? 
Weep  o'er  the  wreck  and  mourn  the  bitter  cause, 
Ye  who  profess  to  give  us  righteous  laws. 
'T  was  ye  who  sanctioned  the  unholy  creed, 
That  worked  the  ruin,  wrought  the  fearful  deed. 

Father,  we  bow  beneath  the  chast'ning  rod, 

Our  proud  hearts  yield,  we  own  once  more  our  God  ; 

With  spirits  humbled  even  to  the  dust, 

We  bless  Thee  now,  and  own  Thy  wrath  as  just. 

Forth  from  the  fiery  furnace,  purged  and  tried, 

A  nation  blest,  a  nation  purified, 

With  contrite  heart  and  lowly  bended  knee, 

Father  of  mercies  now  we  come  to  Thee  ! 

Oh,  stay  the  curse !  withdraw  the  mighty  hand, 

And  smile  once  more  upon  our  stricken  land ! 


LITTLE    HATTIE. 


LITTLE    HATTIE. 

THEY  have  told  thee  she  must  die,  mother, 

When  the  summer  roses  bloom, 
They  will  lay  her  sadly,  gently  down, 

In  the  cold  and  silent  tomb. 

There  is  sorrow  on  thy  brow,  mother, 

And  a  tear  is  in  thine  eye, 
For  thy  heart  is  very  sad  to  think 

That  thy  little  one  must  die. 

By  the  angel  seal  that 's  stamped,  mother, 

On  the  baby's  sinless  brow, 
By  the  earnest  light  in  the  starry  eyes, 

That  are  resting  on  thee  now : 

We  know  she  may  not  stay,  mother, 
Through  the  long  bright  summer-hours, 

Aye,  we  know  that  thou  wilt  miss  her  soon, 
From  thy  band  of  infant  flowers. 

When  thy  sweet-voiced,  warbling  bird,  mother, 

Came  fluttering  to  thy  breast, 
Like  a  doveling  to  its  own  soft  home, 

Like  a  wanderer  to  its  rest : 

There  was  joy  in  every  heart,  mother, 
There  was  light  in  every  eye, 


LITTLE     HATTIE. 


For  ye  dreamed  not  that  so  fair  a  thing, 
In  its  loveliness,  would  die. 

When  the  lisping  voice  is  hushed,  mother, 

And  the  cherub-brow  is  cold, 
When  the  little  heart  lies  calm  and  still, 

'Neath  the  death-robe's  snowy  fold : 

When  they  lay  thy  babe  to  rest,  mother, 

In  the  grave  so  lone  and  drear, 
And  the  sorrow-cloud  droops  darkly  down, 

O'er  the  hearts  that  loved  her  here : 

Thou  wilt  feel  her  warm,  sweet  breath,  mother, 

Falling  lightly  on  thy  cheek, 
And  the  loving  little  arms  again, 

Will  be  twined  around  thy  neck. 

Thou  wilt  fold  her  to  thy  heart,  mother, 

As  in  sunny  days  gone  by, 
Ere  the  home  wreath  miss'd  a  tiny  flower, 

Or  the  death-cloud  lingered  nigh. 

But  the  lovely  dream  will  fade,  mother, 

And  the  silent  tear  will  fall ; 
For  thy  little  one  may  wake  no  more 

To  thy  fond  and  loving  call. 

When  the  merry  shout  is  heard,  mother, 

And  the  laugh  rings  wild  and  free, 
Thou  wilt  turn  away  in  speechless  grief,  j\ 

They  will  bring  no  joy  to  thee ! 


LITTLE    HAT  TIE. 


Thou  wilt  miss  a  fairy  form,  mother, 
From  the  joyous  household  band, 

And  the  softest  little  star  of  all, 
Will  shine  in  the  better  land. 

Thou  wilt  miss  the  earnest  gaze,  mother, 

Of  the  eyes  so  blue  and  mild, 
And  thy  heart  will  yearn  with  longings  vain, 

For  thy  gentle,  Christ-like  child ! 

I  know  not  why  it  is,  mother, 
That  the  things  we  love  the  most, 

Like  the  fairest  flowers,  are  sure  to  fade, 
And  the  loved  are  soonest  lost. 


IB 

She  is  but  a  jewel  lent,  mother, 

The  gem  so  soft  and  fair, 
Is  a  borrowed  one  from  Paradise, 
And  we  know  't  is  wanted  there. 

In  the  land  above  the  stars,  mother, 
Little  Hattie  soon  will  rest. 

She  will  slumber  very  sweetly  there, 
On  the  loving  Saviour's  breast. 

The  glories  of  that  radiant  sky, 
Will  forever  round  her  shine, 

And  her  tears  will  all  be  wiped  away, 
By  a  gentler  hand  than  thine. 


PEACE,     BE    STILL. 


Perchance  long  years  of  woe,  mother, 
May  be  spared  thy  cherish'd  one  ; 

For  our  Father  sees  not  as  we  see : 
His  will,  not  ours,  be  done ! 


PEACE,    BE    STILL. 

WHEN  the  Saviour's  "Peace,  be  still/' 

Hushed  the  waves  of  Galilee, 
And  a  calm  stole,  like  a  thrill, 

O'er  the  dark  and  surging  sea ; 
When  the  winds  and  waters  slept, 

Cradled  in  the  arms  of  Power, 
There  was  rapture  in  each  heart — 

There  was  blessing  in  the  hour. 

Mortal,  when  the  waves  of  life, 

Like  the  angry  billows,  roll, 
And  the  clouds  of  doubt  and  strife 

Droop,  in  darkness,  o*er  the  soul — • 
Cling  unto  the  cross  of  Christ, 

Bow,  in  meekness,  to  His  will ; 
He  will  hush  thy  heart's  unrest, 

He  will  whisper,  "Peace,  be  still." 


j 




THE    BIBLE. 


THE    BIBLE. 

HEAD  it  not  lightly  —  sacred  glories  shine 

On  every  page  of  the  eternal  book, 
And  visions  bright,  and  mysteries  divine, 

Are  here  revealed  to  those-  who  humbly  look, 
And  pray  for  God's  own  Spirit  while  they  read, 
To  give  them  light  —  light  that  to  Him  shall  lead. 

Eead  it  not  lightly,  ye  who  gaily  tread 

The  halls  where  Fashion  holds  her  princely  sway  ; 

The  path  between  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Is  but  a  narrow  and  a  darksome  way. 

Kead  it  not  lightly  —  it  will  guide  thee  o'er 

The  waves  that  swell  to  the  eternal  shore  ! 

Kead  it  not  lightly,  mourner,  who  hast  seen 
The  life-light  fading  from  the  eye  of  love, 

The  death-damp  resting  on  the  brow  serene, 
And  the  soul  longing  for  its  home  above, 

And  groped  in  darkness  'neath  the  cloudless  sun 

That  lit  the  heaven  of  the  dying  one. 

Kead  it  not  lightly,  for  the  voice  of  God 
Will  bring  a  rapture  all  unknown  'before, 

And  the  high  soul  shall  spurn  the  senseless  clod, 
And  lift  its  longings  to  that  peaceful  shore, 

Where  grief  comes  not,  nor  Death's  pale  shade,  nor  tears, 

Where  joys  eternal  gild  the  rolling  years.  f. 

'Ji  'i^J 


-''J 


THE    BIBLE. 


Read  it  not  lightly' — 't  is  a  lamp  from  Heaven 
To  light  the  glowing  fires  of  Love  and  Faith, 

To  point  the  soul,  by  waves  of  sorrow  driven, 
To  the  fair  land  beyond  the  shades  of  Death  ! 

Oh,  let  the  still,  small  voice  of  God  be  heard, 

Whose  inspiration  stamps  each  burning  word  ! 

Read  it  not  lightly — when  the  stars  shall  fall, 

And  shining  suns  from  their  high  homes  be  hurled, 

The  Christian's  hope,  triumphant  over  all,' 

Shall  stand  unshaken  'mid  "the  crush  of  worlds," 

And  the  freed  soul  shall  rise  supremely  blest, 

And  claim  the  promise  of  a,n  endless  rest. 

Read  it  not  lightly — earth  shall  pass  away, 
And  the  fair  heavens  melt  with  fervent  heat, 

Yet  'mid  the  ruins  of  that  awful  day, 

When  waves  of  flame  with  lurid  waves  shall  meet, 

God's  holy  Word,  the  eternal  Truth,  shall  stand, 

Firm,  as  when  written  by  the  inspired  hand. 


MY    LITTLE    NAMESAKE. 


MY   LITTLE    NAMESAKE. 

SHE  's  a  dainty,  blue-eyed  girl 

Made  of  finest  mould, 
Lips  of  rose  and  teeth  of  pearl, 

Hair  of  paly  gold ; 
Making  olden  hearts  rejoice 
With  her  tiny,  warbling  voice, 
Gladder  than  a  singing  bird's, 
Lisping  sweet,  half-uttered  words, 
Trilling  out  her  baby  glee, 
Oh,  a  precious  thing  is  she, 

Youngest  of  the  fold ! 

With  a  half  uncertain  fall, 

Musical  and  sweet, 
Pattering  through  the  pleasant  hall, 

Come  the  busy  feet ! 
Much  I  tremble  for  our  pet, 
Lest  she  prove  a  sad  coquette ; 
For  she  treadeth  daintily, 
Deigning  not  to  notice  me — 
Ah  !  I  have  the  little  Miss, 
From  her  lips  I  snatch  a  kiss, 

Is  it  not  a  treat  ! 

Clingingly  around  my  neck, 
Now  the  white  arms  twine, 


MY    LITTLE    NAMESAKE. 

Lovingly  her  downy  cheek, 

Nestles  close  to  mine ; 
In  her  glee  she  presses  now, 
Playful  kisses  on  my  brow, 
Oh,  the  warmth  of  her  caress 
Melts  my  soul  to  tenderness ; 
For  the  love  of  such  a  child, 
All  untainted,  undefiled, 

Is  a  thing  divine ! 

Closer  now  the  tiny  form 

To  my  heart  I  hold, 
Thus  forever  from  the  storm, 

From  the  chilling  cold, 
I  would  shield  this  gentle  dove ; 
For  the  pleading  look  of  love 
In  the  baby  eyes  of  blue, 
Brings  to  mine  the  gathering  dew. 
Holy  as  the  angels  be, 
In  her  sinlessness  is  she, 

Pet  lamb  of  the  fold  ! 


OUR    COUNTRY. 


OUK    COUNTRY, 

WRITTEN     JULY     4  T  H,     1850. 

OUR  country,  we  love  thee  !  we  love  thy  green  hills, 
Thy  wide,  rolling  rivers,  and  clear  rippling  rills, 
Thy  rich  summer  sunsets,  the  gay,  gorgeous  dyes, 
That  blend  with  the  blue  of  the  radiant  skies, 
Thy  dark,  waving  forests,  thy  fair,  virgin  soil, 
Where  the  harvest  grows  ripe  for  the  husbandman's  toil, 
Thy  cloud-circled  mountains,  and  broad  arching  sky, 
Thy  glorious  banner,  reared  proudly  on  high ! 

Hail !  hail !  to  the  standard  that  gracefully  waves, 
O'er  the  tombs  of  our  fathers — the  time-honor'd  graves, 
Where  sleep  the  immortal,  the  heroes  of  yore, 
Who  banished  the  foe  from  our  beautiful  shore ! 
Had  the  brave-hearted  yielded,  0  England !   to  thee, 
Would  the  blue  welkin  ring  with  the  songs  of  the  free  ? 
The  voice  of  Oppression,  the  clank  of  her  chain, 
And  the  low  wail  of  Erin  come  over  the  main. 

Oh,  let  us  unite  in  one  prayer  for  our  land, 
That  the  glorious  temple  of  Freedom  may  stand, 
That  our  own  peerless  eagle  may  lift  its  proud  wing, 
Unscathed  and  unshackled — a  fetterless  thing, 
That  the  boom  of  the  cannon,  the  shout  loud  and  long, 
0  loved  Independence !  may  blend  with  thy  song — 
That  our  beautiful  banner  triumphant  may  wave, 
O'er  lovely  Columbia,  land  of  the  brave  ! 

_ 


GONE     UP     HIGHEH. 


GONE   UP   HIGHER 

A  Tribute  to  the  memory  of  HIRAM  S.  POMEROY,  who  died  at  Fort 
Edward  Institute,  the  8th  of  May,  1855. 

THE  hush  of  Death  hath  been  upon  our  hearts ! 
The  still  deep  hush,  the  mournful,  solemn  awe, 
Yea,  it  hath  been  with  us,  and  we  have  wept ! 
Ours  was  a  perfect  chain — no  link  was  gone 
To  note  the  entrance  of  the  dreaded  foe, 
And  at  the  morning  sacrifice  't  was  blest, 
'T  was  beautiful,  to  bow  before  the  throne, 
And  thank  our  Father  for  the  tender  love 
That  yet  preserved  us  all.     We  saw  not  then 
The  shadow  of  the  dark  and  viewless  wing 
That  hovered  o'er  us,  and  as  thus  we  met 
Unsevered,  our  full  hearts  gave  praise  to  God, 
And,  with  a  child-like  trust,  we  dared  to  hope 
It  might  thus  ever  be,  that  we  in  peace 
Might  thus  together  dwell  a  love-united  band. 

The  days  and  weeks  past  on !    The  spring-time  came 
With  dreamy  skies  and  sunsets  soft,  and  clouds 
That  lay  like  islands  in  a  tranquil  sea, 
With  singing  streams,  and  flash  of  waters  bright, 
With  springing  flowers,  and  melody  of  birds, 
And  "all  the  voices  sweet  that  thrill  the  soul, 
And  make  the  young  heart  glad.    Then  came  a  change — 
And  one  with  pure,  broad  brow  and  open  gaze, 


GONE    UP    HIGHER. 


Whose  soul  was  filled  with  melody,  whose  heart 
Was  tuned  to  love — one  with  a  gay,  glad  voice, 
The  music  of  an  aged  father's  soul, 
A  smile  the  sunshine  of  a  mother's  heart, 
One  with  the  spirit  pure  and  meek  of  Him, 
The  Father's  lowly  Son,  drooped  suddenly, 
And  mournfully  the  word  came  to  our  ears, 
That  he  would  die  ! 

In  the  first  flush  of  youth 
When  the  clear  eye  had  learned  a  deeper  light 
From  high  communion  with  the  Soul  of  thought, 
And  the  glad  face  was  eloquent  with  bliss, 
When  life  was  radiant  with  a  thousand  charms, 
^  And  the  warm  heart  swelled  high  with  glowing  hope, 
lit  And  brilliant  dreams  had  wreathed  a  syren  spell 
With  which  to  bind  the  future — must  he  die  ? 

Oh,  there  were  sighs  and  tears,  and  the  wrung  hearts 
Of  those  who  watched  above  the  dying  one, 
And  saw  the  shadows  stealing  o'er  his  face, 
And  knew  the  silver  cord  must  soon  be  loosed, 
Were  bowed  in  agony  of  prayer  to  Him 
Whose  breath  alone  might  raise  the  suff'rer  up ; 
That  if  it  were  His  will,  the  cup  might  pass. 
In  the  deep  silence  of  the  holy  night, 
When  the  still  stars  looked  down  with  angel  eyes, 
When  earth  had  lulled  her  weary  heart  to  rest, 
And  all  was  hushed  and  fair,  the  summons  came ! 
O'er  the  loved  form  an  aged  father  bent, 
And  who  may  tell  the  woe,  too  deep  for  tears, 

That  settled  down  upon  his  stricken  soul, 

__ 


— 

GONE    UP    HIGHER. 


As,  in  its  mournfulness,  the  truth  would  come, 
That  Death  was  near !  Yea,  near  to  hush  the  voice 
Whose  sound  was  music  to  his  listening  ears, 
To  pale  the  brow,  to  still  the  throbbing  heart, 
To  chill  and  freeze  the  circling  tide  of  life, 
To  steal  the  sunshine  of  his  soul  away, 
And  veil  it  in  the  grave  ! 

She  too  was  there — 

She  who  had  taught  the  childish  knees  to  bend, 
And  the  low  voice  to  lisp  the  name  of  Jesus ! 
When  in  the  beauty  of  his  boyhood's  years, 
Her  lips  had  breathed  the  story  of  the  cross, 
And  she  had  talked  of  Him,  the  Crucified ; 

,  Until  her  voice  grew  tremulous  and  low. 

|  Perchance  as  she  had  marked  the  earnest  gaze, 
The  troubled,  thoughtful  look,  the  silent  tear, 
Stealing  unbidden  down  the  lifted  face, 
And  watched  the  dawning  of  each  infant  thought, 
A  voice  had  whispered  to  her  heart,  that  he, 
The  child  she  loved,  should  sound  the  gospel  trump, 
And  spread  the  tidings  of  great  peace  and  joy. 
Perchance  her  soul,  in  its  deep  love,  had  yearned 
To  see  her  boy  go  forth,  his  armor  on, 
And  girded  for  the  great  and  fearful  strife, 
With  the  high  seal  of  God  upon  his  brow, 
A  flaming  herald  of  the  cross  of  Christ ! 

'T  was  but  a  dream — a  vision  of  the  soul 
Cherished  and  beautiful,  held  in  her  heart 
With  the  deep  joy  a  mother's  heart  may  know, 
Yet  born  to  pass  away,  pencil'd  to  fade. 


GONE    UP    HIGHER. 


And  now  the  mother  felt  that  he  must  die  ! 

Yet  there  is  bairn  for  even  wounds  like  these ; 

Life  knows  no  grief  the  Saviour  may  not  heal. 

The  mourner  leaned  not  on  a  broken  reed  ; 

And  in  that  hour  of  deep  and  voiceless  woe, 

The  stricken  soul  drew  nearer  to  the  throne, 

And  the  pierc'd  heart  found  strength  and  grace  to  say, 

Thy  will,  0  G-od,  be  done  ! 

Glory  was  there  ! 

Yea,  glory  in  the  heart  of  him  that  died, 
And  glory  on  his  face,  and  in  his  words, 
As  the  rapt  soul  looked  up,  with  faith's  clear  eye, 
And  gathered,  from  the  dawning  light  of  Heaven, 
A  gleam,  so  blest,  of  that  celestial  land — 
A  new-born  joy,  so  fraught  with  love  divine, 
That  e'en  the  trembling  strings  of  life  must  break ! 
Gently,  as  when  a  star  fades  from  the  blue, 
And  melts  away,  in  the  still  morning  light ; 
Sweetly,  as  when  a  blest  and  thrilling  strain 
Floats  in  its  softness  on  the  quiet  air, 
And  fainter  grows,  until  it  dies  away, 
That  morning  sun  went  down — that  spirit-lyre 
Was  hushed,  and  the  glad  music  stilled  for  aye. 

The  morning  dawned,  and  with  it  came  a  hush — 

A  silent  shadow  on  the  careless  heart ; 

And  the  bright  smile  was  banished  for  the  tear, 

And  tones  were  smothered  and  young  steps  grew  light, 

And  the  glad  echo  of  the  merry  voice 

Sounded  no  more,  in  freedom,  through  the  halls, 


— 

GONE    UP    HIGHER. 


For  one  had  passed  away,  and  all  were  sad. 

A  weary,  mournful  day,  a  long  and  silent  night, 

And  the  cold  clay,  so  beautiful  in  death, 

Was  robed  and  coffined  for  the  voiceless  tomb. 

Gently  they  bore  him  to  his  long,  long  rest ! 

Where  the  winds  sigh  amid  the  tassel'd  trees, 

And  young  flowers  breathe  their  fragrance  on  the  air, 

Where  bird-songs  trill  above  the  pleasant  graves, 

And  the  long  grass,  with  many  a  shadowy  wave, 

Springs,  in  its  softness,  from  the  grateful  earth, 

And  weaves  a  carpet  for  the  mourner's  tread, 

They  laid  him  down  to  sleep  !      Then  with  bowed 

hearts, 

And  tears,  our  broken  band  drew  near,  to  bring 
Their  offering  sweet,  of  early  budding  flowers, 
The  gracious  tokens  of  a  Father's  love, 
And  drop  them  gently  in  our  brother's  grave. 
Oh  Jt  was  a  solemn  hour,  and  many  a  heart 
That  ne'er  had  known  the  quiet,  inborn  joy, 
The  peace  and  glory  of  the  wondrous  love 
That  shed  a  halo  over  Jordan's  waves, 
That  took  away  the  sting — the  fear  of  Death, 
And  made  it  blest  and  beautiful  to  "die, 
Was  awed  and  softened  by  the  holy  spell 
That  lingered  round  the  portals  of  the  tomb. 
Death  was  the  gate — the  vestibule  of  Heaven  ; 
And  though  we  saw  the  cold  and  lifeless  form, 
And  gaz'd,  in  sorrow,  on  the  once  glad  face, 
Rigid  and  passionless,  we  know  he  lives  ! 
0£  'T  was  the  frail  dust  they  laid  away  to  rest, 


THE    SPIRIT. 


Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  whispering  trees  ; 
The  soul — the  deathless — the  immortal  part, 
That  gave  such  heauty  to  its  earthly  home, 
Lives  with  its  God,  and  bathes  its  tireless  wing 
In  the  glad  sunshine  of  eternal  love  ! 
With  angels,  now,  he  hows  before  the  throne  ; 
The  gushing  voice,  tuneless  and  hushed  to  us, 
Blends  with  the  sweetness  of  the  seraph's  song, 
And  swells  the  chorus  of  the  anthem  high, 
Chanted,  in  rapture,  by  the  blood- washed  throng. 
No  night  is  there,  nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  stars, 
But  God's  own  glory  is  the  light  thereof; 
And  He,  Himself,  shall  wipe  all  tears  away  ! 

1   Call  we  our  band  a  broken  one  to-night  ? 

(\  Yes,  we  are  here,  and  there  is  one  in  Heaven  ! 

'T  is  well 

The  grave  hath  hid  the  sunshine  of  his  face, 
And  the  clear  gaze  of  those  deep  eyes  is  veiled 
Forever,  yet  again  we  say,  'T  is  WELL  ! 


THE    SPIRIT. 

WHAT  is  the  spirit  ?  't  is  the  mystic  thing 
That  gives  a  glory  to  the  speaking  face, 
That  prints,  upon  the  brow,  a  heavenly  trace, 

And  lends  the  senseless  clay  a  seraph's  wing ; 
Something  immortal,  reaching  to  the  skies, 
Whose  source  is  God — whose  goal  is  Paradise  ! 


1  98    WHO    WOULD    NOT    DIE    TO    LIVE    AGAIN? 

a 


WHO   WOULD   NOT    DIE   TO    LIVE 

AGAIN? 

I  SAW  a  fair  and  lovely  child, 

With  eyes  of  heaven's  softest  blue 

A  form  of  sweet  bewitching  grace, 
A  heart  that  ne'er  a  sorrow  knew. 

With  lightsome  step  she  bounded  on, 
And  garlanding  the  dewy  flowers, 

She  twined  them  'mid  her  sunny  curls, 
And  danced  away  the  golden  hours. 

Again  I  looked — the  scene  was  changed  : 
Those  soft  blue  eyes  were  gently  closed, 

And  still  and  cold,  in  Death's  embrace, 
That  fair  and  child-like  form  reposed. 

The  silken  curls  were  smoothly  laid, 
From  orT  the  brow  serenely  white, 

While  round  the  pale  and  waxen  b'ps, 
There  played  a  smile  divinely  bright. 

Beside  the  gentle  sleeper's  couch, 
A  mother  stood,  with  tearful  eye, 

She  saw  the  casket  of  her  gem, 
The  jewel  sparkled  far  on  high. 

Upon  the  fair  and  sinless  brow, 
She  prest  one  fervent  kiss  of  love, 




T  H  E    D  R  E  A  M.  99 


And  then,  in  broken  accents,  sighed, 

"  My  flower  but  droops  to  bloom  above." 

I  turned  away— borne  on  the  breeze, 
Methought  I  heard  a  rapturous  strain, 

And  angel  voices  seemed  to  ask, 

"  Who  would  not  die  to  live  again  ?" 


THE    DKEAM, 

METHOUGHT  I  stood  in  a  lordly  hall, 

Where  'wildering  splendors  shone, 
And  light  feet  tripp'd  to  the  rapturous  swell 

Of  music's  heavenly  tone  ; 
Soft  love  was  stealing  from  soul-lit  orbs, 

In  glances  divinely  bright, 
And  coral  lips  \vrere  witchingly  wreathed, 

With  smiles  of  radiant  light. 

The  ruby  gleamed  and  the  diamond  flashed, 

On  many  a  queenly  brow, 
And  the  silvery  laugh  went  floating  by, 

In  cadence  gentle  and  low ; 
The  glorious  voice  of  song  went  up, 

From  those  halls  so  gay  arid  proud, 
And  happiness  seemed  to  reign  that  night, 

In  the  heart  of  the  dazzling  crowd. 


THE    DREAM. 


The  sylph-like  form  and  the  airy  tread, 

Moved  on  in  the  mystic  dance, 
A  scene  so  bright  I  had  never  met, 

And  stood  in  a  breathless  trance, 
When  one  I  saw,  'mid  the  giddy  throng, 

With  a  pale  brow,  broad  and  high, 
With  a  lip  whose  smile  was  eloquent, 

And  a  dark  and  speaking  eye : 

Her  floating  robe  was  of  virgin  white, 

No  gem  'mid  her  tresses  gleamed, 
The  light  of  truth,  on  her  peerless  brow, 

With  a  quiet  luster  beamed  ; 
And  lo !  as  I  gazed,  the  bright  throng  paused, 

That  radiant  form  drew  nigh, 
And  the  words  that  fell  from  her  parted  lips 

Were  soft  as  the  zephyr's  sigh  ! 

"  Mortal,  thinkest  thou  the  angel  of  Peace 

Hath  folded  her  pinion  here  ? 
That  dark  eyes,  flashing  so  proudly  now, 

Ne'er  harbor  the  pearly  tear  ? 
Ah !  many  a  heart  with  anguish  beats, 

'Neath  a  gay  and  costly  robe, 
And  the  silver  wreath  oft  graces  a  brow 

That  burns  with  a  painful  throb. 

Then  go  thy  way,  with  a  wiser  heart, 

Nor  seek  for  happiness  here, 
Not  all  the  gorgeous  glitter  of  wealth 

May  purchase  a  thing  so  dear. 


TO    THE    STARS.  101 

The  light  of  a  joyous  soul  may  seem 

From  the  'witching  glance  to  dart, 
But  a  robe  of  smiles  is  often  Avorn 

To  cover  a  broken  heart." 

Those  silvery  tones  then  died  away, 

That  glorious  form  was  gone ; 
She  floated  off,  like  a  vision  of  light — 

The  song  and  the  dance  went  on. 
I  turned  away  from  that  princely  hall, 

The  lesson  was  taught  me  there, 
That  the  heart  oft  swells  with  a  bursting  grief, 

When  the  lip  a  smile  doth  wear. 


TO    THE    STABS. 

SOFT  lights  that  gem  yon  cloudless  sky. 

Blest  with  the  glorious  power 
To  chain  the  soaring  soul  on  high, 

At  evening's  solemn  hour  ; 
To  break  the  strange,  mysterious  spell, 

That  darkly  binds  us  here, 
And  lift  the  burden  of  our  dreams, 

Up  to  the  shining  sphere ; 
Ye  fan  the  native  fires  of  thought 

Unto  one  brilliant  flame, 
And  teach  the  adoring  heart  to  praise 

The  mighty  Maker's  name. 


TO    THE    STARS. 


Oh,  when  at  eve,  my  lifted  eyes 

Drink  in  the  starry  light, 
Wild  longings  in  my  soul  arise— - 

Dreams  beautiful  and  bright ! 
I  hear  the  swelling  hymn  of  old, 

When  shouts  of  glory  rang, 
When  angels  hailed  Creation's  morn, 

And  ye  together  sang. 
A  hush  comes  o'er  ine,  and  I  kneel 

Upon  the  dewy  sod, 
And  pour  my  heart's  deep  worship  out, 

In  voiceless  prayer,  to  God. 

Held  in  a  rapt  and  breathless  trance, 

Before  the  eternal  throne, 
I  strive  to  teach  my  stam'ring  lip 

One  strong  and  mighty  tone  ! 
The  power  to  breathe  the  "  words  that  burn/' 

Hath  never  yet  been  mine  ; 
And  though,  at  times,  my  soul  hath  caught 

A  ray  of  light  divine, 
From  proud  Expression's  peerless  star, 

Yet  soon  the  spell  is  o'er. 
Deep  thought  retires  within  itself, 

And  finds  a  voice  no  more. 





OUR    ANGEL. 


OUK   ANGEL. 

WE  called  her  Angel,  for  the  light 

That  shone  in  her  soft  eyes 
Had  something  in  its  hue  of  Heaven— 

The  sweet  look  of  the  skies ; 
And  ever  on  her  gentle  lips 

There  played  a  quiet  smile, 
As  if  some  thought  of  holiness 

Were  in  her  heart  the  while. 

Our  world,  with  all  its  loveliness, 

Hath  many  mournful  things, 
And  when  our  Angel  noticed  this 

She  plumed  her  viewless  wings ; 
There  came  a  spell  upon  her  soul, 

A  shadow  on  her  face, 
And  oftener  we  saw  her  kneel 

Before  the  throne  of  grace. 

She  watched  the  moving  of  the  cloud 

That  broods  above  our  land, 
She  saw  the  severed  household  chain, 

The  broken  household  band ; 
She  saw  the  great  and  gifted  bow 

Low  at  the  tempter's  shrine — 
The  glory  of  the  god-like  mind 

Quenched  in  the  sparkling  wine. 


104  OUR    ANGEL. 


To  him  who  Avon  her  early  love, 

She  saw  the  pale  wife  cling, 
She  saw  him  spurn  the  broken  heart, 

A  crushed  and  bleeding  thing  ; 
And  then  our  Angel's  brow  grew  pale, 

Her  bounding  step  grew  slow, 
Her  voice,  of  melting  melody, 

Grew  very  soft  and  low. 

Her  eyes — those  deep  and  wondrous  eyes- 
Grew  eloquent  with  tears, 

We  watched  her  jealously  the  while, 
And  strove  to  hush  our  fears  ; 

But  when  we  asked  her  why  her  voice 
Had  lost  its  olden  song, 

Our  Angel,  meekly  smiling,  said, 
"  I  may  not  tarry  long." 

We  tried  to  win  her  from  the  skies — 

We  searched  the  woodland  bowers, 
And  threaded  wild,  untrodden  paths, 

To  bring,  for  her,  the  flowers  ; 
We  garlanded  the  holy  things, 

And  bound  them  on  her  brow, 
And  softly  said,  within  our  hearts, 

"  She'll  fold  her  pinions  now." 

But  fainter  grew  her  quiet  smile, 
And  feebler  grew  her  tone, 


•^iX 


EARTH'S  TRIUMPH  HOURS. 


And  holier,  in  its  loveliness, 
The  light  that  round  her  shone. 

One  day,  she  folded  her  thin  hands, 
And  closed  her  weary  eyes, 

And  then  our  Angel  fell  asleep, 
And  woke  in  Paradise. 


'EARTH'S   TRIUMPH   HOURS. 

A     VALEDICTORY     POEM. 

EARTH  hath  for  all  her  triumph  hours, 

Some  radiant  with  joy  and  light, 
When  brows  are  garlanded  with  flowers, 

And  gay,  glad  smiles  are  beaming  bright, 
And  some  known  by  the  kindling  eye, 

The  changing  cheek's  o'ermantling  glow, 
The  bound  of  pulses  beating  high, 

The  life-tide's  quick,  tumultuous  flow. 

They  bless  the  lowly  and  the  great — 

They  come  where  hearts,  in  meekness,  bow, 
Where  proud  forms  sit  in  regal  state, 

And  jewel'd  splendors  grace  the  brow  ; 
The  little  child,  the  strong,  brave  man, 

The  mighty  monarch  on  his  throne, 
The  warrior  in  the  army's  van, 

Each  hath  some  hour  of  triumph  known. 


106  EARTH'S  TRIUMPH  HOURS. 

When  the  first  fall  of  tiny  feet 

Makes  music  on  the  cottage  floor, 
And  young  lips  breathe,  in  lispings  sweet, 

The  words  they  ne'er  have  said  before, 
The  dawning  of  a  glad  surprise, 

The  sudden  glow  of  conscious  power, 
Lights  up  the  large  and  wondrous  eyes, 

And  marks  the  baby's  triumph  hour. 

In  the  first  flush  of  early  youth, 

When  life  with  rainbow-dreams  is  fraught, 
And  childhood's  bold  and  fearless  truth 
j       Is  blent  with  manhood's  earnest  thought ; 
The  grasping  of  some  high  desire, 

The  reaching  of  some  lofty  goal, 
Kindles  to  life  the  electric  fire 

That  glows  within  the  daring  soul. 

The  man  of  bearing  high  and  proud, 

Whose  voice,  one  wave  of  minstrelsy, 
Sweeps  forth,  until  the  breathless  crowd 

Sways  like  the  vast  and  surging  sea, 
/  Feels,  in  his  heart,  the  rising  flame, 

The  power  the  restless  throng  to  bind, 
And  flushing  cheek  and  brow  proclaim 

The  triumph  of  a  master-mind. 

When  Genius,  to  her  favored  child, 

Some  rich,  exulting  strain  hath  taught, 

And  Poesy  breathes,  in  numbers  wild, 
The  language  of  the  burning  thought, 


EARTHS    TKIUMPH    HOUKS. 


A  rapture  all  the  being  fills, 

The  broad  brow  hath  a  gladder  grace, 
The  pale  cheek  glows,  the  high  heart  thrills, 

Arid  triumph  glorifies  the  face. 

The  warrior  from  the  field  of  strife, 

To  whom  the  mighty  nations  bow, 
Feels,  in  his  veins,  the  tide  of  life 

Course  with  a  fuller,  faster  flow, 
When  mingle  song  and  echoing  shout, 

With  silver  strains  and  chime  of  bells, 
And  glad  triumphant  peals  ring  out, 

And  music  on  the  clear  air  swells. 


Loud  peans  to  the  skies  ascend, 
'4f  Till  wakes  again  the  broad,  blue  dome, 

Bright  banners  wave,  young  voices  blend, 

And  millions  greet  the  hero  home  ; 
Aye,  brave  hearts  leap  and  pulses  thrill 

When  song  and  shout  ring  on  the  breeze ; 
Yet  there  are  conquests  higher  still, 

And  prouder  triumph-hours  than  these  ! 

When  trusting  woman,  cursed  and  spurned, 

Her  heart  a  crushed  and  bleeding  thing, 
In  her  sweet  faith,  hath  meekly  turned 

I 

And  borne  it  all  unmurmuring ; 
When  she  hath  taught  her  soul  to  bow, 

And  gently  hushed  the  rising  sigh, 
A  glory  gilds  the  patient  brow, 

And  triumph  lights  her  earnest  eye. 



— 

I  108  EARTH'S  TRIUMPH  HOURS. 


When  the  stern  man  hath  breasted  long 
The  waves  of  Passion's  troubled  sea, 

Gained  o'er  his  spirit  proud  and  strong, 
•  ^     The  pure  and  perfect  mastery ; 

The  thrill  of  that  mysterious  power 
Gives  to  his  heart  a  fuller  swell, 

The  glory  of  his  triumph  hour, 

Not  all  may  know  and  none  may  tell. 

And  thus  they  come,  earth's  triumph-hours, 
Some  that  in  trumpet-tones  have  rung, 

Some  garlanded  with  laurel-flowers, 
f)       And  some  unheralded,  unsung- ! 

Perchance  our  hearts  have  felt  to-night, 
The  circling  life-tide's  faster  flow, 

As  standing  on  the  classic  hight, 
We  view  the  meadow-lands  below. 

Those  meadow  lands  !  ah,  they  are  fair, 

Watered  by  Learning's  crystal  rills, 
Waved  by  the  pure  untainted  air, 

Wafted  in  freshness  from  her  hills  ! 
Beyond  the  broad  and  billowy  green, 

The  Alpine  hights  of  Science  tower, 
The  student's  goal,  the  sunrise  scene 

Of  many  a  glorious  triumph-hour. 

Classmates,  we  pause,  and  ere  we  press 
Our  feet  upon  the  viewless  shore, 

We  give  a  thought  of  tenderness 
To  all  that  was — and  is,  no  more ! 


EARTHS    TRIUMPH    HOURS. 


Our  school-days  !  pleasant  they  have  been, 
The  promise  of  the  unborn  years, 

And  must  the  parting  enter  in, 

And  turn  their  blessedness  to  tears  ? 

'T  is  here  together  we  have  knelt, 

Glad  worshippers  at  Wisdom's  shrine, 
Our  souls  have  thrilled  as  we  have  felt 

The  clasping  of  her  hand  divine ; 
The  lightning-thought,  a  chainless  thing, 

Throned  in  a  waveless  sea  of  light, 
Would  higher  lift  its  eagle  wing, 

And  scale  the  mountain's  proudest  hight. 

Aye,  there  are  gushing  founts  unsealed, 


For  which  our  panting  spirits  thirst, 
And  fuller  splendors  unrevealed 

Shall  on  the  dazzled  vision  burst ! 
Oh,  in  this  hour  of  tenderness, 

We  feel  the  wave  of  viewless  wings, 
And  inner  voices  bid  us  press 

To  higher,  nobler,  purer  things  ! 

Sisters,  whose  voices'  gentle  swell 

Hath  blended  sweetly  with  our  own, 
And  brother,  now  the  fond  farewell, 

We  breathe,  with  hushed  and  sadden'd  tone, 
And  o'er  our  heart  there  comes  a  wave 

Of  mournful  music,  deep  and  strong, 
As  if  some  trembling  lute-string  gave 

The  burden  of  its  silver  sons;. 


EARTH'S  TRIUMPH  HOURS. 


'T  is  here  together  we  have  bowed, 

Meekly,  to  learn  the  Master's  will, 
And  felt,  beneath  the  sacred  cloud, 

The  hushing  of  the  "  Peace,  be  still !" 
Oh,  in  the  future  storms  unseen, 

May  not  the  same  voice  calm  the  strife, 
And  lend  us,  in  its  light  serene, 

The  sunshine  of  our  girlhood  life  ? 

It  may  be  ours,  with  words  of  love, 

To  win  the  wanderer  from  his  ways, 
Teach  the  bowed  soul  to  look  above, 

The  lips  of  cursing,  songs  of  praise  • 
It  may  be  ours,  with  fainting  feet, 

The  weary  walks  of  earth  to  tread, 
Cold  words  and  chilling  frowns  to  meet, 

Where  once  the  light  of  love  was  shed. 

Let  us  go  forth  with  cheerful  hearts, 

With  yearnings  for  the  pure  and  true, 
To  act,  in  earnestness,  our  parts, 

To  do  with  might  whate'er  we  do  ; 
And  though  we  suffer,  strength  divine 

Shall  gird  the  sinking  soul  with  power, 
And  angel  fingers  garlands  twine, 

To  grace  the  martyr's  triumph-hour. 

Our  Teacher^ !  how  the  full  heart  glows ! 

Warm,  gushing  thoughts  upon  us  press, 
We  may  not  break  the  pure  repose, 

The  holy  hush  of  thankfulness ; 


EARTHS  TRIUMPH  HOURS. 


The  unsealed  waters  rise  and  swell, 
Their  depth  the  lip  may  ne'er  reveal ; 

For  words  grow  weak  and  may  not  tell, 
HOAV  much  a  grateful  heart  may  feel. 

It  hath  been  yours  to  lead  us  up 

The  winding  ways  of  Wisdom's  mount, 
Lift  to  our  lips  the  cooling  cup, 

Fresh  from  the  pure  and  crystal  fount : 
It  hath  been  yours  to  sweep  the  lyre, 

To  hold  the  wondrous  master-key, 
That  woke  to  life  the  high  desire, 

And  tuned  the  mind  to  minstrelsy. 

Oh,  not  in  vain  hatli  been  the  care, 

The  watchful  love,  the  earnestness, 
The  wrestling  soul,  the  fervent  prayer, 

That  God  our  early  ways  would  bless  ; 
The  seed  your  cheerful  hands  have  sown, 

Shall  quicken  in  the  grateful  soil, 
And  the  rich  harvest,  golden  grown, 

Shall  witness  of  your  earnest  toil ! 

The  guiding  words  that  softly  fell, 

Waking  the  soul's  unconscious  powers, 
With  mingled  melody  shall  swell 

The  glory  of  your  triumph-hours  ! 
Aye,  these  shall  make  your  lives  sublime, 

And  when  the  burning  stars  grow  dim, 
The  music  of  their  vesper-chime 

Shall  blend  with  the  eternal  hymn. 




THE    DEAD     CHILD. 


We  pause — a  hush  comes  o'er  the  soul, 

And  bows  it  in  an  hour  like  this, 
When  the  heart's  beating  seems  to  toll 

The  death-knell  of  the  parted  bliss ; 
The  secret  fount  within  is  stirr'd, 

Higher  the  gushing  waters  swell, 
The  lip  may  breathe  one  only  word, 

Strangers  and  loved  ones,  all,  FAREWELL  ! 


THE   DEAD   CHILD. 

VEIL  a'way  the  summer  gladness, 

Shut  the  sunlight  from  the  room, 
Meet  is  now  the  wail  of  sadness, 
Meet  the  still  and  voiceless  gloom, 
Hearts  are  aching, 
Bleeding,  breaking, 
In  the  shadow  of  the  tomb, 

Many  a  flower  of  beauty  scattered 

Hath  the  household  garland  known, 
Many  an  idol  rudely  shattered, 
Jewels  missing  where  they  shone, 
Stars  benighted, 
Yet  relighted, 
Shining  in  the  Saviour's  crown. 


THE    DEAD    CHILD. 


Fold  the  snowy  robes  around  him, 

Deck  him  for  his  narrow  bed, 
'T  is  a  wakeless  sleep  hath  bound  him ; 
Well  we  know  the  child  is  dead  ! 
Weep,  0  Mother ! 
For  another 
Birdling  from  thy  bosom  fled. 

Glancing  o'er  the  green  earth's  brightness, 

With  a  step  all  gay  and  fleet, 
Oh,  there  was  a  mystic  lightness, 

/  *f  o  / 

Merry,  musical  and  sweet, 

In  the  sounding 

Of  the  bounding 
Of  the  little  twinkling  feet ! 

Gently  smooth  the  silken  tresses 

As  in  sunny  days  before, 
Vain  are  all  thy  fond  caresses, 
He  may  heed  them  nevermore — 
Yet  we  could  not, 
Oh,  we  would  not 
Lure  him  from  the  spirit-shore. 

There  will  come  to  thee  the  brightness 

Of  the  lost  and  vanish'd  one, 
And  thine  ear  will  catch  the  lightness 
Of  his  soft  and  silvery  tone, 
In  the  morning, 
In  the  evening, 
In  the  night  and  at  the  noon. 


114 


THE    BEAUTIFUL. 


On  the  brow  so  meek  and  holy, 

We  the  last  fond  kiss  have  prest ; 
With  a  mournful  step  and  slowly, 
Lay  the  beautiful  to  rest ! 
Death,  the  reaper, 
Folds  the  sleeper 
Tightly  to  his  icy  breast. 


THE    BEAUTIFUL. 

IN  the  rich  drapery  of  a  sunset  sky, 

In  the  soft  shadows  of  the  twilight  hour, 
In  the  still  starlight  falling  from  on  high, 

In  the  faint  quiver  of  a  moonlit  shower ; 
In  the  deep  crimson  of  the  rose's  heart, 

In  the  pure  whiteness  of  the  lily's  bell, 
Where  bright  waves  gleam  and  glancing  sunbeams 
dart, 

The  spirit  of  the  Beautiful  doth  dwell ! 

In  the  light  step,  the  form  of  floating  grace, 

In  the  warm  sunshine  of  a  pleasant  smile, 
In  the  glad  love-light  of  a  cheerful  face, 

The  soul  untainted  by  the  breath  of  guile ; 
In  the  pure  heart,  where  one  resistless  flood, 

The  holy  waters  of  affection  swell, 
In  all  things  high  and  glorious  and  good, 

The  spirit  of  the  Beautiful  doth  dwell ! 


TWILIGHT    MUSINGS. 


TWILIGHT    MUSINGS. 

HAIL,  holy  hour !  methinks  that  Paradise 
Hath  lent  a  veil  to  shade  thy  mellow  skies, 
So  calmly  fades  each  gorgeous  sunset  hue, 
And  melts  serenely  in  the  tranquil  blue, 
So  soft  and  shadowy  is  the  pensive  light 
That  marks  the  bridal  of  the  day  and  night. 

How  sweet  the  dawning  of  this  solemn  hour 
O'er  every  thought  it  sheds  a  soothing  power, 
Refines  the  being — elevates  the  soul, 
And  binds  each  passion  with  a  calm  control ; 
While  contemplation  lifts  her  brow  on  high, 
And  paints  the  glories  of  a  fairer  sky. 

Mount !  mount,  my  soul !  thou  restless  spirit,  soar, 
And  fold  thy  pinions  on  that  viewless  shore, 
Far,  far  beyond  the  proudest  hights  of  time, 
Oh,  lift  thy  longings  to  that  holy  clime, 
Where  light  resplendent  gilds  eternal  day, 
And  peaceful  seasons  never  pass  away ! 

Why  droops  thy  wing  !  why  tires  thy  lofty  flight  ? 

Canst  thou  not  pierce  Eternity's  own  light  ? 

Immortal  life,  that  glorious  gift  is  thine — 

The  gift  to  fathom  mysteries  divine. 

Then  break  the  chain  that  fain  would  bind  thee  here, 

And  plume  thy  pinions  for  a  cloudless  sphere. 


THE    DIVORCED    WIFE.  Lj 

If  J 

Thine  eye  must  dim,  thy  wing  must  powerless  droop, 
To  weaker  things  thy  daring  flight  must  stoop ; 
Firm  are  the  links  of  earth's  unyielding  chain, 
Back  to  my  heart !  thy  longings  all  are  vain  ! 

Soul,  dost  thou  spurn  the  feeble  things  of  earth  ? 
Wouldst  seek  the  home  that  gave  thy  yearnings  birth  ? 
Wouldst  soar  above  the  cold  and  senseless  clod, 
And  bow,  with  angels,  at  the  throne  of  God  ? 
One  holy  power  can  waft  thee  sweetly  there — 
Devotion's  breath — the  wing  of  fervent  prayer  ! 


THE    DIVOKCED   WIFE. 

THOU  wilt  forget  me  when  dark  eyes 

Are  flashing  proudly  on  thy  sight, 
When  fair  forms  bend  around  thy  path, 

And  radiant  smiles  are  beaming  bright ; 
Thou  wilt  forget  me  when  soft  tones 

Are  breathing  music  on  thine  ear, 
For  ah  !  no  voice  may  dare  to  speak 

The  name  that  once  to  thee  was  dear ! 

Thou  wilt  forget  me  when  the  world 
To  thee  its  willing  homage  pays, 

When  fair  hands  strew  thy  path  with  flowers, 
And  fond  lips  proudly  speak  thy  praise ; 




THE    DIVORCED    WIFE. 


For  once  I  saw  tliee  when  thy  brow 
Was  circled  by  the  wreath  of  fame, 

When  triumph  wing'd  the  golden  hours, 
And  syren  voices  breathed  thy  name. 

I  saw  thee,  and  thine  eyes  met  mine — 

How  coldly  fell  their  gaze  on  me  ! 
And  thou  didst  smile — a  strange,  proud  smile — 

As  if  to  mock  my  agony ! 
In  vain  I  strove  to  veil  my  woe, 

And  teach  my  lip  a  smile  to  wear, 
Alas  !  my  aching  brow  would  pale, 

My  heart  grow  faint  when  thou  wert  near ! 

Thou  wilt  forget  that  once  my  soul 

Drank  in  the  music  of  thy  voice, 
That  once  each  thrilling  tone  of  thine 

Could  make  this  throbbing  heart  rejoice ; 
And  thou  wilt  choose  a  fairer  one, 

To  tread  with  thee  the  walks  of  life, 
Yet  in  the  holy  sight  of  Heaven, 

I  only  am  thy  wedded  wife  ! 

Thou  wilt  forget  that,  once  thy  lips 

Were  prest  unto  this  burning  brow — • 
That  thou  didst  clasp  my  hand  in  thine, 

And  speak  the  solemn  marriage- vow ; 
Thou  wilt  forget  it,  but  the  God 

That  sealed  that  vow  will  ne'er  forget ; 
The  golden  chain  of  wedded  love, 

With  Him,  is  firm  and  binding  yet. 


THE    DIVORCED    WIFE. 

And  dost  thoii  think,  with  other  men, 

The  tie  that  bound  our  hearts  is  riven  ? 
Dost  think  those  sacred,  solemn  words, 

Are  nothing  in  the  sight  of  Heaven  ? 
By  all  the  love  I  bear  thee  now, 

By  all  the  love  that  blest  me  then, 
I  still  am  thine  and  thou  art  mine, 

Though  strangers  in  the  eyes  of  men  1 

Oh,  could  I  steel  my  bleeding  heart 

To  every  tender  thought  of  thee, 
And  ne'er  betray,  by  word  or  sign, 

Its  deep  and  bitter  agony  ! 
Oh,  could  I  mingle  with  the  crowd, 

With  mien  so  gay  that  none  might  know 
How  dark  a  spell  had  bound  my  soul, 

How  wild  the  night  of  hopeless  woe  ! 

Oh,  could  I  but  forget  the  past, 

With  the  fair  scenes  that  Fancy  wove, 
Forget  the  hopes  all  blighted  now, 

And  all  the  holy  dream  of  love  ! 
But  no  !  my  husband,  sooner  far, 

Will  yonder  stars  forget  to  shine, 
Than  this  fond  heart  forget  its  love, 

Or  cease  to  mourn  the  loss  of  thine ! 

Forget  thee  ?  no,  't  were  all  in  vain  ! 

Though  faithless,  still,  I  chide  thee  not ; 
The  peaceful  hour  may  never  come, 

When  thy  loved  name  will  be  forgot ! 


THE    DEAD    MOTHER. 


In  the  calm  night  when  all  is  still, 
And  in  the  silent  hour  of  prayer, 

Ah  !  turn  me  wheresoe'er  I  will, 

Thy  worshipped  image  still  is  there  ! 


THE   DEAD   MOTHER 

WAKE  !  mother,  wake  !  the  rosy  morn  is  breaking, 
The  silver  stars  have  shut  their  twinkling  eyes, 

The  summer  day,  in  glory,  now  is  waking, 
This  is  the  hour  that  thou  wert  wont  to  rise. 

Wake  !  mother,  wake  !  the  birds  are  sweetly  singing, 
The  flowers  are  sparkling  in  the  dewy  light, 

The  village  bell  a  merry  peal  is  ringing, 
And  all  around  is  beautiful  and  bright. 

Wake !  mother,  wake  !    long,  long  hath  been  thy 
sleeping, 

Since  the  fair  twilight  threw  its  shadows  'round, 
The  golden  sunbeams,  through  the  curtains,  peeping, 

Would  wake  a  sleep  less  strange,  or  less  profound. 

Wake  !  mother,  wake  !  I  miss  thy  kindly  greeting, 
Thy  calm,  cold  look,  ah  1  how  it  makes  me  weep ! 

Thy  heart  is  still,  I  feel  no  more  its  beating, 
And  something  tells  me  thou  wilt  ever  sleep  ! 


THE    DEAD    MOTHER. 


Wake  !   mother,  wake  !    why  heed'st  thou  not  my 
crying  ? 

But  yester-eve  those  white  lips  on  me  smiled, 
Now  on  thy  breast  my  weary  head  is  lying, 

Kind  mother,  wake,  and  bless  thy  weeping  child ! 

Wake  !    mother,  wake  !    whilst  thou   art  sweetly 
dreaming, 

I  lay  my  hand  upon  thy  peaceful  brow, 
'T  is  icy  cold !  the  sunlight,  on  it  streaming, 

Hath  not  the  power  to  warm  its  paleness  now. 

Wake  !  mother,  wake  !  for  I  am  weary  calling, 
A  chilling  weight  is  resting  on  my  heart, 

On  thy  pale  cheek  my  tears  are  fastly  falling, 

And  strange,  sad  thoughts  their  shadows  round  me 
dart. 

Speak  !  mother,  speak  !  my  arms  are  round  thee 
twining, 

Dost  thou  not  feel  my  warm  cheek  close  to  thine  ? 
What  means  this  sudden  splendor  round  thee  shining, 

I  ne'er  beheld  a  glory  so  divine ! 

Sleep !  mother,  sleep !  the  sunlight  now  is  lying 
In  many  a  warm,  soft  shadow,  on  the  floor ; 

The  stars  have  set,  and  the  pale  moon  is  dying, 
Alas !  sweet  mother,  thou  wilt  wake  no  more ! 


— 

CHILD    OF    SUNSHINE. 


CHILD   OF   SUNSHINE. 

CHILD  of  sunshine,  joy  to  thee, 

With  thy  laughter  wild  and  free ! 

With  thy  curling,  elfin  hair 

Floating  round  thy  forehead  fair, 

With  thy  fleet  and  airy  tread, 

Lips  of  coral,  full  and  red, 

With  a  cheek  whose  bloom  might  vie 

With  the  rose-heart's  crimson  dye, 

Winning  by  thy  playful  wiles, 

Fond  caresses,  tender  smiles, 

What  a  world  of  gladness  lies 

Deep  within  thy  violet  eyes ! 

Now  thy  merry  voice  is  heard, 

Joyous  as  a  singing  bird, 

Now  thy  fairy  form  is  seen 

Bounding  o'er  the  meadows  green, 

Glancing,  like  a  thing  of  light, 

Through  the  clover,  red  and  white, 

Up  the  hill  and  down  the  dell, 

Graceful  as  a  wild  gazelle, 

By  the  placid  river's  side, 

Where  the  pleasant  waters  glide, 

Through  the  long,  bright,  golden  hours, 

Like  a  sunbeam  'mid  the  flowers, 

Busy  with  thy  guileless  play,  II 

All  the  live-long  summer-day  n^> 


GLEANINGS  FROM  THE  HOURS. 

Not  a  cloud  or  shadow  knows, 
From  its  dawning  to  its  close ! 
Dimples  make  their  dwelling-place 
In  the  heart-light  of  thy  face, 
Angels  in  thy  bosom  rest, 
Child  of  sunshine,  thou  art  blest ! 


GLEANINGS  FROM  THE  HOURS. 

As  shining  links  in  life's  mysterious  chain, 
As  soft  notes  swelling  to  a  thrilling  strain, 
As  bright  waves  flashing  to  the  viewless  shore, 


Where  dwell  the  loA^ed,  the  lost;  the  gone  before, 

As  the  low  voice  of  things  that  never  die 

Bearing  a  record  to  the  throne  on  high,  | 

As  clasps  that  bind  the  present  with  the  past, 

As  golden  fragments  from  forever  cast, 

As  threads  of  which  our  destiny  is  wove, 

As  priceless  jewels  lent  us  from  above, 

As  garlands  scattered  from  eternal  bowers, 

Such,  unto  us,  are  life's  immortal  hours. 

Immortal  ?  aye,  swiftly  they  come  and  go, 
Yet  seal  our  destiny,  for  weal  or  woe, 
As  springs  the  harvest  from  the  seed  we  sow, 
As  swells  the  river  from  the  streams  that  flow, 
And  though,  perchance,  we  fondly,  vainly  dream, 
The  golden  hours  are  fleeting  as  they  seem, 
The  dawn,  the  shine,  the  fading  of  a  beam, 

-- 


GLEANINGS  FROM  THE  HOURS. 


Yet  they  are  solemn — solemn,  since  they  swell 
The  ranks  of  Heaven  or  the  hosts  of  Hell, 
And  deathless,  since  each  mighty  moment  bears, 
Some  mark  that  tells  on  the  eternal  years, 

There  is  an  hour— the  last,  this  side  the  tomb, 
An  hour  so  fearful  with  the  weight  of  doom, 
So  veiled  in  glory>  or  so  wrapt  in  gloom} 
With  the  full  splendor  from  above  so  bright^ 
The  new-born  rapture  bursting  on  the  sight 
Or  with  a  dark,  undying  woe  so  deep, 
The  woe  that  breaks  the  dreamer's  fatal  sleep, 
The  night  that  shrouds  the  soul's  eternal  all. 
And  gathers  round  it  as  a  fearful  pall, 
As  come  the  shadows  ere  the  tempests  fall^ 
An  hour  with  all  that  never  dies  so  fraught 
The  soul  will  bow  beneath  its  crushing  thought. 

Come  to  the  bedside  of  the  dying  one 
Who  ne'er  hath  sought  the  Father's  holy  Son, 
Whose  hours  have  borne  a  record  to  the  skies, 
That  seals,  for  her,  the  death  that  never  dies ! 
'T  is  a  proud  mansion  in  a  sunny  land, 
By  bright  waves  kissed,  and  spicy  breezes  fanned ; 
A  land  of  beauty  where  through  all  the  day, 
From  gushing  fountains  leap  the  silvery  spray, 
A  land  of  sunshine  and  of  gladness,  where 
Steals  a  sweet  fragrance  to  the  dreamy  air, 
From  scented  groves  and  waving  orange-bowers, 
Where  bright  birds  glance  amid  the  tropic  flowers, 


GLEANINGS  FROM  THE  HOURS. 


And  glittering  insects  dip  their  dazzling  dyes, 
In  the  clear  azure  of  the  mellow  skies. 

'T  is  a  proud  mansion — softly  through  the  halls 
The  shaded  light,  in  dreamy  splendor,  falls, 
Mirrors  are  flashing  from  the  stately  walls, 
Hoses  are  smiling,  'neath  the  dainty  tread, 
From  crimson  carpets  blushing  into  red, 
Odors  are  floating  through  the  gorgeous  rooms 
From  jewel'd  censers  breathing  sweet  perfumes, 
And  the  low  sound  of  fountains,  in  their  play, 
Breathes  on  the  ear  a  faint  and  lulling  lay. 
Yet  there  is  gloom  within  that  high  home  now, 
She  of  the  stately  mien  and  haughty  brow 
At  whose  proud  feet  the  vassal'd  millions  bow, 
She  who  hath  scorned  the  lowly  things  of  earth 
And  madly  reveled  in  the  halls  of  mirth, 
She  who  hath  danced  the  golden  hours  away, 
As  if  her  life  were  but  one  gala-day, 
The  brightest  star  of  all  the  dazzling  crowd, 
The  peerless  one,  the  beautiful,  the  proud, 
Hath  laid  her  high  and  lofty  bearing  by, 
And,  in  her  helplessness,  laid  down  to  die ! 

'T  is  the  last  hour !  what  recks  her  splendor  now ! 
The  jewels  flashing  on  her  queenly  brow, 
The  royal  emblems  of  unrivaled  power, 
Oh,  what  are  these  in  this,  a  dying  hour  ! 
She  heeds  them  not — the  dream  of  life  is  o'er, 
Her  feet  are  pressing  to  the  unseen  shore, 


GLEANINGS    FROM    THE    HOURS. 

No  angel  breathings  from  the  land  of  rest, 
Sink  softly  down  into  her  troubled  breast, 
No  peaceful  ray,  no  light  is  in  her  soul, 
No  cloudless  vision  of  a  heavenly  goal, 
No  morning  star  dawns  in  its  light  serene, 
And  throws  a  halo  o'er  the  rayless  scene, 
Cold  on  her  heart  there  lies  a  crushing  weight, 
She  wakes  at  last,  but  wakes,  alas  !  too  late ! 
A  sudden  horror  lights  the  glaring  eye, 
From  the  white  lips  wails  out  the  piercing  cry, 
"  Spare  me,  0  God !  I  cannot,  cannot  die." 
'T  is  all  in  vain !  the  race  of  life  is  run, 
Her  hours  are  lost — her  deathless  soul  undone ! 

Come  to  the  bedside  of  the  dying  one 
Who  waits  to  hear  the  -Master's  sweet  well-done, 
Whose  hours  have  borne  a  record  to  the  skies, 
That  seals,  for  her,  the  life  that  never  dies ! 
'T  is  the  last  hour !  what  is  it  breaks  the  gloom 
And  gives  a  glory  to  the  voiceless  tomb  ? 
A  joy  so  deep  that  e'en  the  loAvly  room, 
Seems  like  a  heaven  !  ah,  Heaven  itself  is  near, 
Nor  trembling  doubt,  nor  sinking  hope,  nor  fear, 
Cloud  the  rapt  vision  of  the  trusting  soul, 
As  dawns  the  glory  of  the  glittering  goal. 
Jesus  is  with  her — with  her  since  she  trod 
The  paths  of  life,  in  meekness,  with  her  G-od, 
The  risen  Saviour  guides  her  willing  feet 
Through  the  dark  vale  where  earth  and  Heaven 
meet ! 


GLEANINGS    FROM    THE    HOURS. 

A  sudden  splendor  lights  the  dimming  eye, 
The  low,  sweet  echo  of  the  parting  sigh, 
Floats  softly  up  beyond  the  starry  sky, 
'•'  'T  is  sweet  to  live,  yet  glorious  to  die  ! " 
Come  gentle  Death !  the  work  of  life  is  done, 
The  crown  is  hers,  the  victory  is  won ! 

0,  solemn  Time  !  we  may  not  fathom  thee 
Since  through  a  glass  we  dimly,  darkly  see, 
We  may  not  read  thy  deep,  unwritten  lines, 
Thy  clear  revealing  of  the  Spirit's  shrines 
Veiled  save  to  God — we  may  not  see  the  light 
That  dawns  upon  thee  in  thy  silent  flight, 
The  still,  clear  radiance  from  the  world  afar, 
That  gives  to  Him  thy  pages  as  they  are^- 
'T  is  ours  to  work — to  work  while  yet  the  day 
Hath  known  no  night — 't  is  ours  to  trust  and  pray, 
To  seize  the  moments  ere  they  glide  away, 
To  live  in  earnest,  ere  the  future  be, 
And  Death  reveals  life's  solemn  mystery. 
So  shall  the  hours  be  beautiful  and  blest, 
The  peaceful  dawnings  of  an  endless  rest ; 
The  golden  lamps  our  virgin  hands  shall  trim, 
Our  life  the  prelude  to  Forever's  hymn, 
Our  living  hours  the  gleams  of  glory  givep, 
The  dying  hour  an  entrance  into  Heaven ! 


THE    BIRDS.  127 


THE   BIKDS. 

THEY  come  !  they  come  !  a  beautiful  band 
From  the  dreamy  shades  of  the  southern  land, 
They  come,  we  know  by  the  merry  trill 
That  softly  floats  o'er  the  distant  hill, 
By  the  warble  wild  in  the  woodlands  dim, 
Like  the  swelling  voice  of  a  thrilling  hymn, 
A  silver  song  and  a  floating  strain — 
The  birds !  the  birds  !  they  are  here  again  ! 

They  come  with  the  gush  of  the  rippling  rills, 
When  the  grass  grows  green  on  the  pleasant  hills, 
When  the  founts  are  loos'd,  and  the  old  earth  rings 
With  the  tinkling  chime  of  a  thousand  springs — 
They  come  with  the  sound  of  the  rustling  trees, 
And  the  balmy  breath  of  the  scented  breeze, 
A  wild,  sweet  song  and  a  gushing  strain — 
The  birds  !  the  birds  !  they  are  here  again ! 


128  THE    ORIGIN    OF    THE    DEW-DROP 


THE   OKIGIN   OF   THE   DEW-DKOP. 

THE  king  of  day  in  royal  robes 

Of  gold  and  purple  drest, 
Had  drawn  his  crimson  curtains  round, 

And  softly  sunk  to  rest : 
The  splendor  of  his  dying  tints 

Had  faded  from  the  earth, 
The  twilight's  deep'ning  gloom  had  hushed 

The  voice  of  careless  mirth, 
And  all  around  was  bathed  in  hues 

So  calm  and  strangely  fair, 
That  Nature  seemed  to  praise  her  God 

In  still  and  voiceless  prayer. 

The  hours  past  on — the  holy  eve 

Had  lent  its  softest  shade, 
When  lo  !  upon  the  tranquil  sky 

One  silver  star  was  laid. 
An  angel  bright  and  beautiful, 

With  form  divinely  fair, 
Had  winged  his  flight  from  Paradise 

And  gently  laid  it  there, 
And  then  a  thousand  glowing  lamps 

He  lit  with  splendor  bright, 
A  thousand  golden  jewels  hung 

High  on  the  brow  of  night ; 


THE    OKI GIN    OF    THE    DEW- DUO  P. 


With  myriad  hosts  of  burning  stars 

The  azure  heavens  beamed, 
While  over  all  a  dreamy  flood 

Of  silver  moonlight  streamed. 

The  angel  paused — his  mission  high, 

His  holy  work  was  done, 
The  moonbeams  lent  their  purest  tints, 

The  stars  resplendent  shone ; 
A  cloud  of  glory  seemed  to  rest 

O'er  earth  and  heaven  fair, 
Blest  as  the  light  that  shone  of  old, 

On  Eden's  sinless  pair. 
From  the  rapt  seraph's  kindling  eye, 

One  silent  tear-drop  fell, 
That  in  a  world  so  beautiful, 

The  shades  of  sin  should  dwell, 
That  proud,  ungrateful,  fallen  man 

Should  'gainst  his  God  rebel ! 

Low  down  upon  the  velvet  earth, 

A  lovely  flower  reposed, 
Its  snowy  bell  was  folded  up, 

Its  starry  eye  was  closed, 
When  lo  !  a  zephyr,  passing  by, 

Its  spotless  leaves  carest, 
And  kiss'd  away  the  thrilling  sweets 

Within  its  peaceful  breast. 
When  downward  through  the  trackless  air, 

The  angel  tear-drop  fell, 


— 

130  PICTURES. 


It  gently  laid  its  pearly  tints, 

Within  the  floweret's  bell, 
And  when  the  sunshine  bathed  the  hills 

In  floods  of  rosy  light, 
It  softly  shone  and  sparkled  there, 

A  thing  divinely  bright. 
A  gladder  beauty  seemed  to  gild 

The  broad  and  peaceful  earth, 
And  Nature  blessed  the  holy  night 

That  gave  the  Dew-drop  birth  ! 


PICTURES.    . 

THEY  come  to  us,  the  beautiful,  the  bright, 

The  pleasant  pictures  of  the  olden  time, 
Unfolding  sweetly  to  the  heart  to-night, 

'Mid  music's  strains  and  voices'  silvery  chime ; 
They  come  to  us  unfading  in  the  glow, 

That  throws  a  halo  o'er  the  vanish'd  year, 
That  gilds  each  joy  and  glorifies  each  woe, 

That  paints  the  smile  and  shadows  not  the  tear ; 
They  come  to  us,  the  pictures  of  the  past, 

Bathed  in  the  sunshine  of  the  memory-light, 
Each  blessed  vision  brighter  than  the  last, 

Dawning  in  beauty  on  the  raptured  sight, 
Until  the  heart  hath  crowned  the  by-gone  years, 
With  all  of  sunshine  and  with  nought  of  tears. 


PICTURES. 


The  veil  is  lifted  from  the  future  now, 

Its  scenes  made  known,  its  visions  bright  un 

sealed, 
Its  pictures  hung  in  Fancy's  brilliant  glow, 

By  the  full  splendor  of  her  torch  revealed, 
They  come  to  us,  the  radiant,  the  fair, 

Painted  in  hues  that  dazzle  as  they  shine, 
Each  tint  that  glows,  each  form  unfolded  there, 

Is  treasured  deep  within  the  Spirit's  shrine  ; 
They  come  to  us,  the  glowing  pictures  traced, 

In  the  pure  brightness  of  eternal  dews, 
Each  gorgeous  scene  unblemished,  unefFaced, 

Giving  the  soul  the  gladness  of  its  hues, 
Until  the  heart  hath  crowned  the  unborn  years, 
With  all  of  sunshine  and  with  nought  of  tears. 

Call  them  not  voiceless  though  they  breathe  no  word, 

Though  lips  are  mute  and  the  fair  form  is  still, 
They  have  a  language,  by  the  spirit  heard  — 

A  silent  speech  that  to  the  soul  doth  thrill  ; 
Call  them  not  voiceless,  pictures  though  they  are, 

Perchance  they  breathe  some  long  forgotten  name, 
Light  softly  up  some  dirnly  setting  star, 

And  fan  the  spark  unto  a  brilliant  flame  ; 
The  bright  creation  glowing  there,  may  give 

A  deeper  purpose  to  the  pure  desire, 
A  nobler  aim  for  which  to  love  and  live, 

A  holier  luster  to  the  sacred  fire, 
And  the  meek  soul,  by  e'en  a  picture  taught, 
May  find  a  glory  in  the  pencil'd  thought. 


132  ANGEL    CHARLIE. 

There  is  a  picture,  glorious  and  bright, 

A  vision  painted  by  an  unseen  hand, 
The  pencil  dipped  in  floods  of  living  light, 

Unfolds  the  splendor  of  the  viewless  land. 
The  Christian  wears  the  shadow  of  the  scene 

Framed  in  the  sunshine  of  his  trusting  soul, 
Throned  in  the  beauty  of  the  light  serene, 

The  still,  clear  radiance  of  the  shining  goal ; 
The  scene  is  Heaven,  with  all  its  wondrous  charms, 

The  Soul  the  canvas,  and  the  artist,  Faith, 
A  new-born  rapture  all  the  being  warms, 

When  floating  down  the  silent  tide  of  Death 
Each  soft  tint  dies,  thus  dimly,  faintly  given, 
And  melts  away  into  the  light  of  Heaven. 


ANGEL   CHAELIE. 

HE  sleeps — "  our  little  Charlie"  sleeps — 

We  know  the  babe  is  blest, 
Cradled  so  soft  and  tenderly, 

On  the  dear  Saviour's  breast ; 
Why  should  our  eyes  with  tears  be  dim, 

Our  darling  is  not  dead, 
We  know  that  all  is  well  with  him, 

Let  us  be  comforted  ! 

'T  was  Jesus  led  the  precious  child, 
Out  of  this  world  of  sin, 


SONG    TO    A    BIRD. 


The  golden  gates  of  bliss  swung  back 

To  let  our  Angel  in  ; 
Look  up,  ye  bleeding  parent-hearts, 

Who  mourn  the  sweet  tie  riven, 
And  feel  how  blessed  't  is  to  have 

A  little  boy  in  Heaven. 


SONG  TO  A   BIKD. 

WHERE  is  thy  home,  sweet  bird  ? 
Is  it  far  away  in  a  distant  land, 
Where  the  blue  waves  flash  on  the  ocean's  strand  ? 
In  the  gorgeous  heart  of  the  South  Sea  Isle, 
'Neath  a  sky  as  soft  as  an  infant's  smile, 
Does  thy  wild  song  float  through  the  spicy  bowers, 
And  thy  bright  wings  glance  'mid  the  orange  flowers  ? 

Whence  comes  thy  song,  sweet  bird  ? 
Hast  thou  soared  away  in  the  deep,  blue  sky, 
Till  thy  quick  ear  thrilled  to  the  chorus  high, 
Of  the  far-oif  song  of  the  angel-choir  ? 
Did  it  fill  thy  soul  with  the  music-fire, 
That  lives  and  breathes  in  thy  gushing  strain, 
With  a  charm  to  hush  and  a  spell  to  chain  ? 

Whence  comes  the  hue,  bright  bird 
Of  the  light  that  gleams  where  thy  pinions  dart, 
Like  the  tint  that  glows  in  the  rose's  heart  ? 


TO-DAY. 


In  thy  giddy  course,  o'er  the  mountain's  hight, 
Didst  thou  Lathe  thy  wing  in  the  dewy  light 
Of  the  purple  cloud  of  the  early  day, 
As  it  floated  off  on  its  morning  way  ? 

Farewell,  farewell,  sweet  bird ! 
Thou  hast  fixed  thine  eye  on  the  blazing  light, 
And  thy  wing  is  spread  for  a  lofty  flight, 
Thou  art  free,  thou  art  free,  as  the  boundless  air, 
And  no  wailing  note  doth  thy  glad  song  bear, 
Like  the  dying  gleam  of  a  setting  star, 
Thou  art  gone  !  thou  art  lost  in  the  blue  afar  ! 

My  song  is  all  unheard  1 


TO-DAY. 

TIE  that  binds  the  past  and  future, 

Wonderful  with  destiny, 
Linking  all  that  ever  has  been 

To  what  may  hereafter  be ; 
Wave  from  out  a  viewless  ocean, 

Dashing  on  the  shores  of  time, 
Every  hour  the  far-off  echo 

Of  the  swelling  surge  sublime ; 
Ray  of  God's  eternal  being, 

Shining  down  upon  our  way, 
Who  may  tell  the  mighty  meaning 

Of  the  little  word,  to-day ! 


TO-DAY. 


Comprehending  all  the  present, 

All  the  real  life  we  live, 
Speech  is  voiceless  to  define  it, 

Words  may  ne'er  its  language  give ; 
Speak  it  soft,  or  speak  it  solemn, 

Speak  it  often  as  we  may, 
We  may  never  tell  the  meaning 

Of  the  mystical  to-day. 

In  the  great  world's  ceaseless  stirring, 

In  the  jarring  din  and  strife, 
Shall  we  call  to-day  a  trifle  ? 

Is  it  not  our  all  of  life  ? 
Aye,  we  may  not  look  beyond  it, 

Yesterday  we  know  is  past, 
We  may  never  see  to-morrow, 

This  to-day  may  be  our  last ! 
Only  time  for  earnest  action, 

Only  time  to  watch  and  pray, 
Endless  joy  or  endless  wailing, 

Hang  upon  the  vast  to-day. 

Every  deed  to-day  shall  witness, 

Every  lowly  deed  of  love, 
Borne  by  God's  recording  angel, 

To  the  burning  Throne  above ; 
Every  word  the  lip  shall  utter 

Be  it  ill  or  be  it  well, 
Solemnly  or  lightly  spoken, 

On  the  endless  years  shall  tell. 


BEAUTIFUL    TO    DIE. 


Let  us  seize  each  priceless  moment, 

Let  us  work  and  watch  and  pray, 
Knowing  that  we  meet  hereafter, 

Every  thing  we  do  to-day  ! 
Then  the  veil  shall  be  uplifted 

From  the  vision,  faint  and  dim, 
And  the  song  of  time  shall  mingle 

With  the  grand  eternal  hymn  ; 
Yea,  our  life  shall  be  an  anthem 

Swelling  up  the  shining  way, 
And  Eternity  the  finale 

Of  the  glorious  to-day. 


BEAUTIFUL   TO   DIE. 

"  0  Death,  where  is  thy  sting  1" — BIBLE, 

IT  must  he  beautiful  to  die 

To  the  soft  echo  of  the  angels'  singing, 
When  seraph-strains  are  stealing  from  the  sky, 

And  the  new  song  upon  the  ear  is  ringing. 

It  must  be  beautiful  to  die, 

Stepping,  unshrinking,  in  the  silent  river, 
By  the  clear  light  of  faith's  discerning  eye, 

Looking  beyond,  unto  the  great  Forever. 

It  must  be  beautiful  to  die, 

Sweetly  released  from  all  that  ever  bound  us, 


... 


LINES    TO    AN    INVALID   .SISTER. 


The  glad  soul  soaring  to  its  home  on  high, 
The  angels  near,  the  Saviour's  arm  around  us. 

It  must  be  glorious  to  die, 

Since  Death  is  but  a  mournful  fetter  riven, 
The  opening  of  the  portals  of  the  sky, 

The  gate  of  bliss,  the  master-key  of  Heaven ! 


LINES   TO   AN   INVALID   SISTEB. 

SWEET  sister,  thou  wert  beautiful, 

Ere  suffering  had  paled  thy  brow, 
Ere  thy  young  heart  had  known  the  spell 

Of  weariness  that  binds  it  now ; 
There  was  a  sunshine  in  thy  smile, 

A  bright  and  nameless  witchery, 
That  played  upon  our  hearts  the  while, 

And  woke  a  deeper  love  for  thee. 

And  yet  more  beautiful  than  this, 

And  holier  than  thine  early  bloom, 
The  charm  that  thy  sweet  gentleness, 

Hath  thrown  around  our  peaceful  home ; 
The  calm,  bright  radiance  on  thy  face, 

Breathes  of  the  soul's  tranquillity, 
The  blessedness  of  that  meek  grace, 

That  maketh  anguish  dear  to  thee. 


From  the  fond  dreams  of  other  days, 
Comes  there,  unbidden,  no  soft  strain  ? 


R3= 


SILENT    CITIES. 


No  spell  from  sunny  memories, 

That  lures  thee  to  the  world  again  ? 

Nay,  by  the  light  on  thy  pale  brow, 
The  eloquence  of  thy  soft  eyes, 

Thy  low,  sweet  words  of  love,  we  know 
Thy  way  is  tending  to  the  skies. 

Meekly,  my  sister,  thou  dost  drink 

The  cup  thy  Father's  hand  prepares, 
Thy  patient  spirit  cannot  shrink 

From  all  the  weariness  it  bears, 
Since  Jesus  marks  the  thorny  road, 

And  gently  paves  the  way  for  thee, 
The  way  that  leads  to  Heaven  and  God, 

To  light  and  immortality. 


SILENT   CITIES, 

THERE  is  a  grandeur  in  the  mournful  gloom, 

That  broods  above  the  cities  of  the  dead, 
An  awe  that  steals  its  shadow  from  the  tomb, 

While  o'er  the  place  of  perished  pride  we  tread ; 
To  the  bowed  heart  there  comes  a  crushing  weight, 

A  quiet  awfulness  profoundly  deep, 
When  the  lone  soul  hath  marked  the  hand  of  fate, 

And  traced  the  graves  where  buried  cities  sleep. 


SILENT    CITIES. 


The  tall,  damp  grass  luxuriantly  grows 

Where  once  was  reared  the  monumental  pile. 
O'er  the  sad  spot  the  wild  wind  moaning  blows. 

The  sunlight  quivers  with  a  sickly  smile ; 
No  echo  wakes  the  voiceless  solitudes, 

No  star  lights  up  the  deep,  unbroken  gloom, 
But,  over  all,  stern  Desolation  broods, 

The  king  of  ruin,  monarch  of  the  tomb  ! 

There  comes  ho  voice  from  crumbling  arch  or  stone, 

To  tell  the  splendor  of  the  storied  past, 
No  lofty  strain  from  mouldering  ruin  lone, 

To  breathe  how  grand,  how  glorious,  how  vast, 
Was  the  great  city  in  her  day  of  pride, 

When  pomp  unrivaled  o'er  her  arches  rolled, 
Ere  plunged  beneath  the  desolating  tide, 

Her  proud  soul  bowed,  her  mighty  heart  grew  cold. 

There  steals  no  tender  toile  from  ivied  walls, 

No  voice  from  out  the  mournful  hush  to  tell, 
How  regal  homes  and  gorgeous  palace  halls, 

Together  in  one  common  ruin  fell ; 
No  outward  sign,  no  vestige  dim,  no  trace 

Unfolds  the  scene  of  power  and  grandeur  fled, 
Nor  arch,  nor  stone,  nor  ruin,  marks  the  place, 

Where  sleep  the  fated  cities  of  the  dead. 

Silence  is  here,  and  yet  the  soul  hath  caught, 
From  its  mute  eloquence  an  echo  deep, 

That  bows  the  heart,  unseals  the  fount  of  thought, 
Keveals  the  spot  where  they,  the  fallen,  sleep, 


SILENT    CITIES. 


And  by  the  hush  that  o'er  the  being  steals, 
The  solemn  spell  unbroken,  deep,  profound, 

The  mystic  awe  the  breathless  spirit  feels, 
We  know  we  tread  on  consecrated  ground ! 

Aye,  consecrated,  since  the  long  grass  waves, 

Where  high  homes  towered,  and  hearts  once  proudly 

beat, 
Springs  greenly  up  from  unremernbered  graves, 

And  softly  bends  beneath  the  pilgrim's  feet ; 
And  consecrated,  since  the  wanderer's  tread, 

Is  o'er  the  grave  of  princely  pomp  and  pride, 
And  the  still  air  breathes  of  the  mighty  dead, 

The  great  of  earth  who  here  have  lived  and  died ! 

S:l 

'T  was  here,  of  old,  the  circling  tides  of  life, 

The  giddy  whirl,  the  wild,  tumultuous  flow, 
Together  mingled  in  a  ceaseless  strife, 

And  busy  forms  were  hurrying  to  and  fro ; 
'T  was  here  the  sound  of  revelry  was  heard, 

And  music's  strains  stole  on  the  clear  still  night, 
And  young  hearts  thrilled,   and  magic   hopes   were 
stirr'd, 

As  fair  forms  floated  in  the  wildering  light. 

'T  was  here  they  moved,  the  radiant,  the  fair, 
With  eyes  of  light  and  forms  of  airy  grace, 

'T  was  here  the  maiden  decked  her  shining  hair, 
And  wooed  the  sunshine  to  her  speaking  face ; 

Here,  the  white  wreath  she  bound  upon  her  brow, 
With  trembling  hand  and  heart  of  swelling  pride, 


SILENT    CITIES. 


And  the  glad  voice  grew  musiccal  and  low, 
As  fell  the  words  that  made  the  girl  a  bride. 

'T  was  here,  perchance,  the  royal  mother  sung 

At  hush  of  eve,  her  low,  sweet  lullaby, 
In  the  rich  cadence  of  her  native  tongue, 

Till  drooped  the  lash  above  the  clear  blue  eye ; 
Fond  dreams  she  held  within  her  spirit,  then, 

How  to  her  boy  the  great  of  earth  should  bow, 
His  voice  should  sway  the  hearts  of  strong,  brave  men, 

The  regal  crown  should  press  the  fair,  broad  brow ! 

Here  the  bold  youth,  with  proud  heart  beating  high, 

Went  forth  to  win  the  laurel-wreath  of  fame, 
And  deeper  shone  the  light  within  his  eye, 

As  honor  came  and  glory  crowned  his  name. 
On  the  clear  air,  so  still  and  solemn  now, 

Rose  the  loud  peal,  the  full,  triumphant  strain, 
As  rosy  garlands  graced  the  conqueror's  brow, 

And  showered  the  glittering  pageant  of  his  train. 

Aye,  here  glad  hearts  and  bounding  pulses  thrill'd, 

And  beat  to  joyous,  busy,  changing  life, 
Ere  the  doomed  city's  million-tones  were  still'd, 

Ere  drooped  the  cloud  that  hushed  the  giddy  strife. 
Yet  they  are  gone,  the  glorious,  the  gay — 

There  comes  no  sound  from  out  the  deep'ning  gloom, 
To  the  low  moan,  the  mournful,  "  where  are  they  ?" 

No  answering  voice  is  echoed  from  the  tomb. 


LINES    TO    J  *  *  *  * 


Sleep  on,  ye  cities  of  the  voiceless  dead ! 

Mighty  ye  were,  but  ye  are  fallen  now — 
The  pilgrim  turns  away  with  reverent  tread, 

And  the  hushed  heart  beats  tremulous  and  slow ; 
A  holy  awe  sinks  deep  into  his  soul, 

He  marks  the  fate  of  earthly  pomp  and  pride, 
And  lifts  his  longings  to  the  shining  goal, 

Beyond  the  river's  still  and  waveless  tide, 
Where  the  fair  city  of  eternal  rest. 

Whose  golden  streets  are  by  the  angels  trod, 
Rises  in  glory,  radiant  and  blest, 

And  everlasting  as  the  years  of  God ! 


LINES   TO   J««*« 

ANOTHER  New  Year's  Day  hath  come, 
And  still  thy  wayward  footsteps  roam, 
Far  from  thy  loved  New  England  home, 
And  stranger  breezes  fan  thy  brow. 
And  stranger  faces  meet  thee  now, 

Our  Brother  J 

And  yet  we  feel  that  thou  art  near, 
When  'mid  the  gems  that  sparkle  here, 
Thy  well-known  characters  appear, 
And  by  the  answering  thoughts  that  start, 
We  know  thine  is  a  kindred  heart, 

Our  Brother ! 


LINES    TOJ****. 


And  has  the  starry  glance  for  thee, 
No  sunshine  and  no  witchery  ? 
The  lute-like  voice,  no  melody  ? 
And  moves  there  not  one  by  thy  side, 
Whom  thou  art  proud  to  call  thy  bride, 
Our  Brother  ? 

Say,  gifted  one,  hast  never  met 
One  face  that  thou  couldst  not  forget  ? 
Whose  memory  is  with  thee  yet  ? 
Has  Cupid  never  aimed  his  dart, 
And  sent  it  quivering  through  thy  heart, 
Our  Brother  ? 

Go,  then,  and  seek  some  gentle  one, 
With  spirit  kindred  to  thine  own, 
To  cheer  thee  with  her  kindly  tone, 
And  with  the  heart  and  clasping  hand, 
We  '11  welcome  to  our  soul-linked  band, 

Another  \ 


UNITED. 


UNITED. 

INSCRIBED  TO  THE  ^ESTHETIC  SOCIETY.* 

UNITED  !  't  is  a  holy  sound, 

A  sweet,  endearing  word, 
And  hearts  will  thrill  and  pulses  bound, 

Where'er  its  voice  is  heard ; 
It  breathes  a  music  low  and  clear, 

A  soul-uniting  strain, 
That  links  our  hearts  together  here, 

As  by  a  silver  chain. 

United !  't  is  the  magic  tie 

That  binds  our  sister-throng, 
The  love  that  lights  the  kindling  eye, 

And  tunes  the  soul  to  song, 
The  breathings  of  that  inborn  joy, 

That  stills  the  heart's  unrest, 
Spring  from  the  union  of  the  pure, 

The  beautiful  and  blest. 

United  J  though  the  loved  shall  go, 

From  out  our  sister  band, 
Though  kindred  hearts  shall  scatter'd  dwell, 

Throughout  our  own  fair  land, 
Though  mountains,  in  their  grandeur,  rise, 

And  seas  between  us  roll, 

*A  literary  society  connected  with  Fort  Edward  Institute. 


UNITED. 


145 


They  may  not  sunder  heart  from  heart, 
Nor  sever  soul  from  soul. 

United !  yea,  though  eyes  should  dim, 

And  cheeks  of  beauty  pale, 
Though  warm  young  hearts  should  throb  no  more, 

And  bounding  steps  should  fail,  . 
The  silken  chain  may  not  be  loosed, 

The  holy  union  riven, 
That  binds  us  with  the  "  gone  before," 

And  draws  us  nearer  Heaven. 

Oh,  when  the  raptured  soul  shall  thrill 

Unto  the  angels'  song, 
When  all  the  glad  redeemed  of  God, 

Shall  swell  the  blood-washed  throng, 
Saviour !  to  Thee  we  lift  our  hearts 

In  pure  and  fervent  prayer, 
That  we  who  are  united  here, 

May  be  united  there  J 


10 


SEA-FOAM. 


SEA-FOAM. 

WE  would  bring  to  thee,  we  would  bring  to  thee, 

No  thrilling  voice  from  tbe  deep,  dark  sea, 

No  murmur  low  from  the  sounding  deep, 

When  the  winds  are  hushed  and  the  blue  waves  sleep, 

No  treasures  bright  from  the  coral  caves, 

Where  the  changing  shade  of  the  sea-grass  waves, 

No  peerless  gems  from  the  mermaid's  home, 

Would  we  bring  to  thee  in  our  pure  sea-foam, 

'T  is  the  soft  spray  dashed  from  the  soul's  own  sea, 

We  would  bring  to  thee,  we  would  bring  to  thee ! 

We  would  bring  to  thee,  we  would  bring  to  thee, 

No  swelling  psalm  from  the  sounding  sea, 

No  far-off  voice  of  the  ocean's  roar, 

No  jewels  washed  to  the  pebbled  shore ; 

There  are  glitt'ring  gems  more  bright  than  they 

In  the  silver  light  of  our  shining  spray. 

There  are  soft  strains  breathed  of  the  joys  that  sleep, 

In  the  mystic  light  of  the  spirit's  deep, 

There  are  songs  that  soothe,  there  are  tones  that  thrill, 

Like  the  whispered  sound  of  a  "  Peace,  be  still ;" 

For  the  sparkling  foam  we  would  bring  to  thee, 

Is  the  soft  spray  tost  from  the  soul's  own  sea. 


OUR    BAND.  147 


OUK   BAND. 

FATHER  of  all,  we  pray  thee  bless 

Our  gifted  sister-band, 
The  kindred  hearts  that  soon  will  meet 

To  clasp  the  parting  hand  ; 
Oh,  water  with  the  dews  of  Heaven, 

Affection's  holy  flowers, 
And  lend  the  sunshine  of  thy  love 

To  gild  these  evening  hours. 

Is  there  one  sister  of  our  band, 

That  shuns  Thy  holy  ways, 
One  soul  that 's  tuneless,  and  one  lip 

That 's  voiceless  to  Thy  praise ; 
One  gifted  one  that  never  bows 

The  knee  in  holy  prayer, 
One  gentle  eye  that  never  sheds 

The  penitential  tear : 

One  sister-heart  that  never  seeks 

The  meek,  the  spotless  One, 
That  glories  not  to  bear  the  cross 

Of  Him,  Thy  lowly  Son  ? 
Oh  then  direct  the  wanderer's  feet 

Unto  the  shining  way, 
Subdue  our  erring  sister's  heart 

And  teach  her  how  to  pray. 


IT    IS    NOTHING    TO    ME. 


Father  of  all,  we  pray  Thee  bless 

Our  cherished  sister-band, 
The  kindred  hearts  that  soon  will  meet 

To  clasp  the  parting  hand. 
Help  us  to  win  the  sacred  prize 

Gained  by  a  Saviour's  love, 
Arid  may  we  all,  unsevered,  meet 

An  ano-el-band  above. 


"IT  IS  NOTHING  TO  ME." 

A 

"!T  is  nothing  to  me,"  says  the  Lady; 

Resplendent  in  jewels  and  gold, 
As  she  turns  from  the  little  street-beggar, 

"With  mien  proudly  scornful  and  cold ; 
Poor  child  !  there 's  a  tremulous  quiver 

In  thy  pleading  so  mournfully  sweet, 
Is  it  nothing  to  her  in  her  splendor, 

With  vassals  and  slaves  at  her  feet  ? 
With  the  step  of  a  queen,  slow  and  stately. 

She  treadeth  her  palace-like  halls, 
Mirrors  flash  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling, 

Rich  paintings  adorn  the  proud  walls, 
Roses  blush  from  the  crimson  and  purple 

Of  carpets  of  fanciful  dyes, 
And  the  wealth  of  her  beautiful  parlors, 

Would  dazzle  thine  innocent  eyes — 

'~ 


j  . , 


IT    IS    NOTHING    TO    ME. 


One  mite  from  her  glittering  coffers, 
Sweet  child,  were  a  kingdom  to  thee, 

Yet  alas !  as  she  turns  from  thy  sorrow, 
She  says,  "It  is  nothing  to  me." 

How  sad  seems  the  glad  summer  sunshine, 

How  mournful  the  blue  arching  sky, 
To  the  heart  of  the  little  street-beggar 

With  the  tear  in  her  eloquent  eye ! 
Away  from  the  mansions  of  splendor, 

The  homes  of  the  lofty  and  proud, 
From  the  street  to  the  gloom  of  the  hovel, 

She  threads  through  the  pitiless  crowd ; 
No  glance  from  the  soft  eye  of  woman, 

Compassionate,  tender  and  mild, 
No  reaching  of  white,  jewel'd  ringers, 

To  aid  thee,  thou  famishing  child ! 
Look  up,  little  one,  faint  and  weary, 

The  cloud  from  thy  spirit  shall  fall, 
There  is  One  who,  in  mercy,  regards  thee, 

The  Father  and  Saviour  of  all ! 
Thou  waif  upon  life's  troubled  ocean, 

Lift  upward  thy  gaze,  weak  and  dim, 
The  haughty  may  turn  from  thy  sorrow, 

We  know  it  is  something  to  Him  ! 


LIGHTS    AND    SHADES    OF    CHILD-LIFE. 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADES  OF  CHILD-LIFE. 

SAT  not  that  child-life  knows  no  blight. 

The  little  one  no  woe, 
That  music  breathes  and  sunshine  lives, 

Where'er  the  children  go  • 
Say  not  the  meek  and  sinless  brow 

Hath  ne'er  a  mournful  shade, 
That  little  hearts  are  little  heavens, 

For  little  angels  made — 
Say  not  the  waves  of  early  life  A 

Forever  smoothly  glide ; 
Though  childhood  is  a  blessed  thing. 

It  hath  a  shady  side; 

Little  children  !  earth's  evangels  ! 

In  our  hearts  we  've  called  them  angels^ 

Beings  of  the  skies ; 
We  have  read  the  sweet  revealing 
Of  the  spirit's  hidden  feeling, 
In  its  gushing  gladness  stealing 

From  the  tell-tale  eyes ; 
We  have  seen  their  sunny  faces 
In  a  thousand  pleasant  places, 
When  a  cloud  of  glory  bound  them, 
And  a  halo  floated  'round  them, 


LIGHTS    AND    SHADES    OF    CHILD-LIFE.       151 


We  have  named  them  our  evangels, 
Blest  them  as  our  spirit-angels, 
Beings  of  the  skies  ! 

Bounding  o'er  the  clover-meadows, 
Glancing  through  the  changing  shadows 

Of  the  waving  green  ; 
Where  the  flowers  like  stars  are  gleaming, 
And  the  summer  light  is  streaming, 
Pleasant  as  a  poet's  dreaming, 

In  a  golden  sheen  ; 

We  have  seen  them  in  their  gladness, 
All  undimm'd  by  cloud  or  sadness, 
Darting  through  the  shady  masses " 
Of  the  long  and  tangled  grasses, 
In  the  sunshine  of  the  meadows, 
Glancing  through  the  changing  shadows 

Of  the  waving  green. 

With  a  sudden  gush  upspringing, 
We  have  heard  their  laughter  ringing, 

Clear  and  wild  and  free ; 
From  the  spirit's  fountain  welling, 
Of  the  inner  music  telling, 
Floating,  rippling,  rising,  swelling 

In  a  joyous  glee ; 
There  was  rapture  in  its  trilling, 
Wild  and  musical  and  thrilling, 
And  we  said  within  our  spirit, 
Child-life !    oh,  there 's  heaven  near  it, 


«      j 

n 


LIGHTS    AND    SHADES    OF    CHILD-LIFE, 


Glory  is  forever  gleaming, 
Sunshine  is  forever  streaming, 
Where  the  children  be. 

Was  it  well  to  say  forever  ? 
Is  the  brow  of  childhood  never 

Darkened  by  a  shade  ? 
Though  the  light  around  it  gleameth, 
And  the  flood  that  soul-ward  streameth 
In  its  glow  a  glory  seemeth^ 

May  it  never  fade  ? 
Is  the  little  life  a  heaven, 
For  a  living  gladness  given  ? 
Is  the  little  heart  a  prison, 
For  a  radiant  elysian, 
Where  the  joy-bells  chime  forever 
And  the  dancing  sunshine  never 

Blendeth  with  the  shade  ? 

Are  the  children  never  weary  ? 
Falleth  ne'er  a  shadow  dreary 

O'er  the  early  life  ? 
In  the  haunts  of  sin  and  sadnessj 
In  the  dens  of  drunken  madness, 
Veiled  to  light  and  hushed  to  gladness, 

In  the  Babel-strife. 
Where  the  eye  of  crime  is  staring, 
And  the  torch  of  sin  is  glaring, 
Where  the  wing  of  Death  is  stooping, 
And  the  cloud  of  woe  is  drooping, 


LIGHTS   AND    SHADES   OF    CHILD-LIFE. 

Falletli  ne'er  a  shadow  dreary, 
O'er  the  children,  faint  and  weary 
Of  the  ways  of  life  ? 

Ah !  a  sudden  cloud  comes  o'er  us, 
And  a  vision  steals  before  us 

Of  a  little  child ; 
Not  a  merry,  elfin  creature, 
Soul-light  sparkling  from  each  feature^ 
Tiny  angel,  spirit  teacher, 

Saint-like,  meek  and  mild ; 
Not  a  dainty,  little  fairy, 
With  a  motion  light  and  airy, 
Bounding,  springing,  gleaming,  glancing, 
Twinkling  feet  forever  dancing, 
Bird-like  voice  forever  singing, 
Gushing  laugh  forever  ringing, 

Kinging  clear  and  wild  ! 

Ah  !  there  dawns  no  sunny  vision, 
Gleam  of  childhood's  blest  elysian, 

Beautiful  and  bright, 
Mournfully  a  spirit  hushing, 
Seals  the  fount  of  gladness  gushing, 
In  its  voiceless  sorrow  crushing 

Out  the  summer  light ; 
Here  is  child-life,  holy  child-life, 
Weary  with  an  olden  heart-strife 
From  the  great  world's  tumult  turning, 
Ever  with  a  restless  yearning, 


LIGHTS    AND    SHADES    OF    CHILD-LIFE. 


Little  heart  in  darkness  pining, 
ning  for  the  blessed  si 
Of  the  pleasant  light 


Pining  for  the  blessed  shining, 


By  the  tiny  hands  upraising, 
By  the  earnest,  wistful  gazing 

Upward  to  the  skies, 
By  the  hidden  fount's  unsealing, 
By  the  tears  unbidden  stealing, 
By  the  world  of  mournful  feeling 

In  the  lifted  eyes- — 
Well  we  know  the  angel  dreamings, 
Floating  fancies,  golden  gleamings, 
Other  little  hearts  have  cherished, 
From  this  little  heart  have  perished, 
Well  we  know  the  sinless  spirit, 
Seeth  not  the  angels  near  it, 

Bending  from  the  skies. 

Child  of  SOITOW,  child  of  sadness, 
Banished  from  the  summer  gladness, 

Children  love  so  well ; 
Not  for  thee  the  silver  singing 
From  the  country's  bosom  springing, 
Inner  light  and  rapture  bringing, 

Not  for  thee  the  swell 
Of  the  bird-songs  in  the  meadows, 
Warbling  through  the  leafy  shadows, 
Where  the  pleasant  lands  are  spreading, 
And  the  rural  feet  are  treading, 


El 

LIGHTS    AND    SHADES    OF    CHILD-LIFE.       155 

Where  the  purling  streams  are  flowing, 
And  the  berries  red  are  growing, 
Children  love  so  well ! 


Child-life,  with  its  sunshine  shaded, 
Music  fled,  and  glory  faded, 

'T  is  a  mournful  thing ! 
Little  hearts  forever  cheerless, 
Never  beating  free  and  fearless, 
Eyes  that  never  sparkle  tearless, 

Laughs  that  never  ring ; 
Little  ones  with  olden  sorrows, 
Dark  to-days  and  dark  to-morrowg, 
Happy  voices  never  sounding, 
Merry  footsteps  never  bounding 
Faces  wan  with  sorrow  shaded, 
All  the  light  of  child-life  faded, 

'T  is  a  mournful  thing  1 

Take  the  weary  children,  Father, 
When  the  clouds  around  them  gather, 

Let  the  children  rest ! 
There  is  sunshine  for  the  saddest, 
There  is  rapture  for  the  gladdest, 

Cradled  on  thy  breast, 
With  the  arm  of  God  around  them, 
Love  and  light  and  joy  hath  crowned  them, 
Oh,  the  children  !  earth's  evangels  ! 
Sinless  teachers,  wingless  angels, 


BABY    HELEN. 


Since  the  spotless  One  caress'd  them, 
Since  the  gentle  Jesus  blest  them, 
Yes,  we  call  them  blest ! 


BABY   HELEN. 

WRITTEN    AT    THE    AGE    OF     FOURTEEN. 

BABY  HELEN,  softly  rest, 
Cradled  on  thy  mother's  breast, 
Close  thine  eyes  and  sweetly  sleep, 
While  the  angels  vigils  keep. 

Silken  lashes  drooping  low, 
Besting  on  thy  warm  cheek's  glow, 
Pouting  rose-bud  lips  apart, 
What  a  dainty  thing  thou  art  1 

Dimpled  hands  together  prest, 
Folded  meekly  on  thy  breast, 
Oh,  so  softly  falls  thy  breath, 
We  could  almost  dream  it — Death  ! 


Baby,  tell  us  of  thy  dreams, 
Are  they  faint  and  shadowy  gleams  ? 
Visions  of  a  land  more  fair  ? 
Seest  thou  the  angels  there  ? 


LIFE. 


Fondly  on  thy  cherub  brow, 
Lo  !  thy  mother  gazes  now, 
Lifts  to  God  the  fervent  prayer, 

He  may  for  her  darling  care. 

> 

Little  dreamer,  free  from  sin, 
Shut  from  out  the  great  world's  din, 
When  the  death-dew  chills  thy  brow, 
Mayst  thou  be  as  pure  as  now ! 

Angels  guard  thy  sinless  years, 
Jesus  charm  away  thy  fears, 
Take  thee  gently  by  the  hand, 
Lead  thee  to  the  Morning  land  ! 


8 


LIFE. 

LIFE  is  not  all  sunshine,  nor  all  shade, 

But  hath  the  touch  of  each !     Man  was  not  made 

To  sit  in  idleness  in  sylvan  bowers, 

And  dream  away  the  glad,  enchanted  hours  ; 

Nor  need  he  walk  in  darkness  while  the  light 

From  the  clear  heaven  is  shining  full  and  bright — 

But  let  him  work,  and  lift  his  heart  and  pray, 

And  God's  own  smile  shall  glorify  his  way. 

And  the  deep  darkness  of  a  rayless  night 

Shall  flee  before  the  Day-star's  living  light ! 


« 

. .  J 


158  EPIGRAM. 


wg 

\  • 


LOVE. 

LOVE  is  a  star — a  holy  star,  • 

That  burns  with  quenchless  light, 

That  shines  when  clouds  the  blackest  are, 
And  gilds  the  darkest  night, 

Love  is  a  flower — a  gentle  flower 

Of  high  and  holy  birth, 
That  gives  its  sweetest  fragrance  forth 

When  rudely  crushed  to  earth. 


EPIGKAM, 

WHAT  means  that  stern  and  awful  step  ? 

That  firm,  majestic  tread  ? 
Methinks  on  battle  plains  't  would  thrill 

Each  warrior-heart  with  dread  ; 
The  deep  foundations  rock  and  move, 

It  shakes  the  lofty  hall — 
Nearer  and  clearer,  yet  more  near, 

The  stately  stoppings  fall — 
A  merry  laugh  unfolds  the  ruse, 
'T  is  fairy  feet  in  high-heeled  shoes! 


Lr' 

Kf'i    ^»  i  ___ — K^^PTTjs 

.J    ?',"•• 
^  '  j   .  . 


FRIENDSHIP. 


159  0 


FRIENDSHIP. 

NOT  in  the  radiant  glance  alone, 
The  heaming  smile  and  silvery  tone, 
Not  in  the  light  of  a  beautiful  face, 
The  bounding  step  and  the  form  of  grace, 
Oh,  not  in  these  doth  the  secret  dwell, 
The  high,  the  holy  and  wondrous  spell, 
That  binds  the  heart  to  a  faithful  friend, 
Vv7hen  kindred  spirits  together  blend ! 

The  soul  that  gives  to  the  meekest,  grace, 
A  pleasant  look  to  the  homely  face, 
A  holy  light  to  the  soft,  dark  eye, 
'T  is  this  that  strengthens  the  sacred  tie, 
'T  is  this  that  speaks  in  the  gushing  voice, 
'T  is  this  that  maketh  the  heart  rejoice, 
When  kindred  spirits  together  blend, 
And  we  learn  to  trust  in  a  faithful  friend. 


— 


SONNET. 


SONNET. 

BERING     FLOWERS. 

OH,  things  most  holy !  gracing  the  young  spring, 
Gleaming  out  softly  from  the  dewy  grass, 
Springing  where  waves  of  light  and  shadow  pass, 

Dreams  of  the  summer's  blessedness  ye  bring ! 

Ye  breathe  of  woodlands  where  the  blue-birds  sing, 
Of  the  green  meadows'  rich  and  verd'rous  mass, 
Of  silver  trout  within  the  clear  stream's  glass, 

And  the  wild  haunts  where  sylvan  echoes  ring ; 

Crushed  by  rude  feet,  your  sweetest  odors  rise : 
Thus  would  we  meekly  bow  and  kiss  the  rod, 

Kead,  with  pure  lips,  the  language  of  the  skies, 
The  lessons  printed  on  the  velvet  sod, 

Learn  of  the  flowers  the  sweets  of  sacrifice, 
And  give  our  hearts'  best  incense  unto  God ! 


TO     MY    FATHER. 


TO   MY   FATHER 

THE  music  of  the  memory-bells 

Comes  tinkling  soft  and  low, 
And  rings  unto  my  heart,  to-night, 

The  pleasant  "Long  Ago  ;" 
The  golden  years  are  with  me  now, 

My  laugh  swells  wild  and  free, 
I  'm  sitting,  prouder  than  a  queen, 

Upon  my  father's  knee. 

Still  gleam  the  by-gones,  one  by  one, 

Like  stars  in  quiet  skies, 
The  silent  dew  of  thankfulness 

Is  gathering  in  mine  eyes  ; 
The  thought  of  all  the  parent-love, 

So  full,  so  deep,  so  strong, 
Subdues  and  melts  my  grateful  heart, 

And  moves  my  soul  to  song. 

My  fat]ier,  thou  art  still  the  same, 

As  in  the  olden  time, 
When  I  was  but  a  tiny  girl, 

And  thou  wert  in  thy  prime ; 
Thou  hast  been  gentle  with  thy  child, 

Through  all  her  wayward  years, 
Thou  hast  been  faithful  to  her  faults. 

And  tender  to  her  tears. 


11 


— 


TO    MY    FATHER. 


Nobly,  thy  strong,  brave  heart  hath  borne, 

The  pain  and  toil  of  life, 
Undaunted  by  the  cold  world's  scorn, 

Serene  in  all  the  strife ; 
Thine  is  the  high  and  earnest  soul, 

The  courage  calm  and  bold, 
The  love  that  would  lay  down  the  life 

To  guard  thy  little  fold. 

Oh  nought  unto  my  heart  shall  be, 

The  trumpet-tones  of  fame, 
May  I  but  hear  my  father's  lips, 

Breathe  blessings  on  my  name ; 
Sweeter  than  all  the  words  of  praise, 

That  bid  my  pulse  beat  high, 
The  fond,  proud  light  that  beams  on  me, 

From  out  his  clear,  blue  eye. 

Father,  I  bow  my  girlish  head    <• 

Unto  thy  dear  caress, 
And  my  full  heart  goes  out  to  thee, 

In  gushing  thankfulness. 
May  He,  whose  love  o'ershadows  us, 

Guide  thee  as  tenderly, 
And  deal  with  thee  as  kindly  here, 

As  thou  hast  dealt  with  me. 


THE    LAW    OF    MAINE. 


THE   LAW   OF    MAINE. 

Lo  !  the  day  at  length  is  dawning, 

Hail !  0  hail !  the  welcome  light ! 
Long  we  've  waited  for  the  morning, 

Long  hath  been  the  rayless  night ; 
But  the  cloud  is  now  withdrawing 

From  the  land  we  love  so  well, 
And  upon  the  light-<wing?d  breezes, 

Songs  of  triumph  soon  shall  swell ! 
Hark !  the  Temperance  trump  is  sounding, 

Loudly  swells  the  welcome  strain, 
Brothers  !  sisters  !  lend  your  voices^ 

Hail  the  noble  law  of  Maine ! 

Not  till  Temperance  waves  her  banner 

O'er  our  loved  America, 
Will  we  boast  our  nation's  glory, 

Will  we  lift  the  loud  huzza ; 
No  !  for  hearts  have  struggled  bravely, 

With  a  stern  and  mighty  foe, 
And  a  stronger  arm  than  Briton's, 

Binds  our  country  even  now. 
Hark !  the  Temperance  trump  is  sounding, 

Loudly  swells  the  wrelcome  strain, 
Brothers  !  sisters  !  lend  your  voices, 

Hail  the  noble  law  of  Maine ! 


,/Jl'r 
»  •    A 





THE    LAW    OF    MAINE. 


From  the  hills  of  fair  New  England, 

To  the  broad  Pacific's  shore, 
We  will  sing  the  song  of  triumph, 

We  will  tell  the  story  o'er, 
How  the  Rum  King  long  had  fettered, 

With  a  firm  and  iron  hand, 
Freedom's  proud  and  boasted  country, 

Freedom's  fair  and  happy  land ; 
Hark !  the  Temperance  trump  is  sounding, 

Loudly  swells  the  welcome  strain, 
Brothers !  sisters !  lend  your  voices, 

Hail  the  noble  law  of  Maine  ! 

Weeping  ones  shall  weep  no  longer, 

Cheerless  homes  shall  yet  rejoice, 
Hearts  where  desolation  sitteth, 

Yet  shall  raise  a  grateful  voice 
To  the  Lord  of  tender  mercies, 

Who  despiseth  not  the  cry, 
Lifted  by  earth's  wailing  millions, 

To  the  holy  throne  on  high. 
Hark !  the  Temperance  trump  is  sounding, 

Loudly  swells  the  stirring  strain, 
Brothers  !  sisters  !  lend  your  voices, 

Hail  the  noble  law  of  Maine ! 


— <£iC" 

. 


ONE    GLASS. 


ONE    GLASS. 

"  'T  is  but  one  glass  !"  Beware  !  Beware ! 

Look  not  upon  the  rich  red  wine, 
The  demon-chains  of  rum  have  bound 

Full  many  a  heart  as  brave  as  thine  ; 
The  brow  where  genius  sat  enthroned, 

Hath  paled  beneath  the  withering  blight, 
And  souls  once  hopeful  as  thine  own, 

Have  known  a  long  and  starless  night. 

Beware !  thy  fancied  strength  is  vain, 

Oh,  cherish  not  the  wily  foe ! 
For  health  't  will  give  thee  torturing  pain, 

For  peace  and  virtue  voiceless  woe ! 
Dash  from  thy  lips  the  fatal  draught, 

A  serpent's  folds  lie  coiled  beneath, 
'T  will  wound  thee  with  ten  thousand  stings 

And  goad  thee  on  to  endless  death. 

Go  to  the  home  where  love  and  hope 

Once  held  their  calm  and  peaceful  sway, 
Where  past  the  bright  unconscious  hours, 

Glad  as  a  cloudless  summer's  day — 
Hark !  fearful  sounds  steal  on  the  breeze, 

Deep,  bitter  curses  rend  the  air, 
By  all  the  horrid  strife  witliin, 

We  know  the  drunkard  dwelleth  there ! 


(7j  166  ONE    GLASS. 


Go  view  in  yonder  reeling  form, 

The  man  to  whom  the  great  have  bowed, 
Whose  words  of  burning  eloquence, 

Once  held  entranced  the  wondering  crowd  ; 
Mark  well  the  wild  and  frenzied  glance, 

The  hollow  cheek,  the  glaring  eye- — 
Think'st  thou  with  one  convulsive  throe, 

He  laid  his  noble  manhood  by  ? 

The  lofty  seal  of  thought  once  stamped 

Its  lines  upon  that  massive  brow, 
Young  lips  were  vocal  with  his  praise, 

Lips  that  would  proudly  scorn  him  now ; 
And  did  the  mighty  statesman  fall, 

In  one  dread  moment  or  one  day  ? 
Nay,  step  by  step,  and  pace  by  pace, 

He  came  the  dark  and  downward  way. 

Long  years  ago  he  stood  with  those, 

Who  bow  at  Fashion's  heartless  shrine, 
And  many  a  fair,  white,  jewelled  hand, 

Held  to  his  lips  the  sparkling  wine ; 
Dark,  radiant  orbs  on  him  were  bent, 

The  young,  the  beautiful  were  there, 
He  heeded  not  the  solemn  voice, 

That  spake  the  warning  word,  Beware  ! 

High  hopes  and  brilliant  dreams  were  his, 
Joy  lit  the  boundless  future  up — 

Destruction,  death,  eternal  night, 
He  read  not  in  the  glittering  cup  ; 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  WIFE. 

He  saw  not  then  the  fearful  cloud, 
That  drew,  in  awful  silence  near, 

He  saw  not  in  the  ruby  wine 
A  foe  to  all  his  heart  held  dear. 

"  'T  is  but  one  glass  !"  with  these  fell  words 

He  hushed  the  silent  monitor. 
Behold  him !  oh,  how  fallen  now, 

The  great  and  gifted  orator  ! 
"  'T  is  but  one  glass,"  the  tempter  pleads, 

Oh,  touch  it  not,  or  all  is  o'er, 
Again  that  siren  voice  will  cry, 

"  But  one  glass  more,  but  one  glass  more  1" 


THE   DRUNKARD'S  WIFE. 

WHERE  are  the  dreams  of  other  days, 

The  visions  glad  and  gay  ? 
The  glowing  hopes  that  softly  shone 

Like  stars  upon  my  way  ? 
Where  is  the  sunny  seal  of  joy 

That  stamped  my  girlish  brow  ? 
The  rainbow-dreams  of  early  years, 

Alas !  where  are  they  now  ? 

Gone  like  the  morning  dew, 
Gone  like  the  summer-flowers, 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  WIFE. 

Leaving  no  cherished  joy  behind 
To  gild  the  starless  hours  ! 

Gone  like  the  sunset  glow 

O'er  flashing  waters  cast, 
Gone  like  the  cloudlet's  gorgeous  tints, 

Too  bright — too  bright  to  last ! 

Where  are  the  smiles  that  woke  for  me, 

Upon  my  bridal  day  ? 
When  love-lit  eyes  were  beaming  bright, 

And  every  heart  was  gay — 
Where  rests  to-night  the  tender  glance 

That  proudly  beamed  on  me  ? 
The  loved  of  years— the  chosen  one — 

Oh,  tell  me !  where  is  he  ? 

Go  where  the  tempter's  smiles 

In  brimming  goblets  shine, 
Go  where  the  deathless  spirit  bows 

Before  the  wine-god's  shrine. 

Go  where  the  frenzied  shout 

Steals  on  the  midnight  air, 
Where  sounds  of  madden'd  mirth  are  heard — 

Alas !  he  lingers  there ! 

Where  is  the  angel  child  that  came 

To  cheer  my  hours  of  gloom  ? 
A  thing  so  bright,  I  fondly  hoped 

T  would  bring  the  wanderer  home ! 


• • — - 

THE   DRUNKARD'S  WIFE. 

Methought  that  to  her  pleading  voice 
Her  father's  heart  would  bow, 

My  only  one — rny  beautiful ! 
Alas  !  where  is  she  now  ? 

Hushed  is  the  bounding  step, 
Dimmed  are  the  eyes  of  blue, 

The  rose  upon  the  velvet  cheek 
Paled  to  an  ashy  hue ! 

Down  in  the  churchyard  now, 
She  sleeps  the  dreamless  sleep, 

The  angels  o'er  her  little  grave 
Their  lonely  vigils  keep. 

And  thus  the  dreams  of  other  days 

Have  faded,  one  by  one, 
'Mid  the  wild  wreck  of  perished  hopes, 

Oh,  must  I  still  live  on  ? 
No  golden  gleam,  no  sunny  ray, 

To  gild  the  path  of  life, 
How  wearily  the  hours  pass  on, 

To  me,  the  drunkard's  wife ! 

Death,  thou  art  welcome  now ! 

Kind  Father  take  me  home, 
An  angel  hand  is  beck'ning  me, 

I  come !  my  child,  I  come  ! 


TEMPERANCE    STANZAS. 


1 


TEMPERANCE   STANZAS. 

ALL  hail,  to  the  dawn  of  the  beautiful  day  ! 
The  clouds  and  the  darkness  are  passing  away, 
The  mists  and  the  shadows  are  all  floating  by, 
The  Temperance  star  rises  high  in  the  sky, 
It  bursts  like  a  sun  from  the  night's  sable  pall, 
Its  splendor  shall  circle  the  pathway  of  all, 
Rejoice,  noble  sons  of  the  Temperance  band  ! 
The  night  is  far  spent  and  the  day  is  at  hand  ! 

Ye  have  armed  for  the  struggle,  the  cause  of  the  right, 
'  Your  courage  is  strong  and  your  armor  is  bright, 

Ye  have  risen  to  conquer,  the  work  must  be  done, 
The  foe  must  be  vanquished,  the  victory  won, 
A  glorious  light  shall  illumine  our  land, 
The  night  is  far  spent  and  the  day  is  at  hand ! 

On  !  on,  to  the  battle !  the  tyrant  must  yield, 

His  death-dealyig  ranks  must  be  forced  from  the  field, 

The  peal  of  the  victor,  the  clarion-shout, 

On  the  clear  air  of  heaven  shall  ring  proudly  out, 

The  forests  majestic,  the  mountain  and  wave 

Shall  echo  the  song  of  the  free  and  the  brave, 

Rejoice  noble  sons  of  the  Temperance  band  ! 

The  night  is  far  spent  and  the  day  is  at  hand ! 


TEMPERANCE    STANZAS. 


Long,  long  o'er  our  land,  the  fell  spoiler  hath  trod, 
And  spread  desolation  and  anguish  abroad, 
Man  formed  in  the  image  and  likeness  Divine^ 
Hath  bowed  to  his  sceptre  and  knelt  at  his  shrine, 
The  hour  of  his  glory  and  triumph  hath  past, 
The  merciless  foe  is  retreating  at  last, 
Rejoice,  noble  sons  of  the  Temperance  band ! 
The  night  is  far  spent  and  the  day  is  at  hand. 

The  enemy's  standard  in  triumph  hath  waved, 
The  storm  and  the  tempest  our  army  hath  braved, 
When  the  heavens  were  veiled  in  the  terrible  pall, 
And  the  blackness  of  midnight  was  over  us  all, 
There  was  strength  in  each  purpose,  resolve  on  each 

brow, 

Ye  faltered  not  then,  and  ye  falter  not  now ! 
Eejoice,  noble  sons  of  the  Temperance  band ! 
The  night  is  far  spent  and  the  day  is  at  hand ! 

Rejoice,  ye  that  mourn  !  all  ye  weary  rejoice  ! 
To  the  Father  of  mercies  lift  up  a  glad  voice, 
From  the  desolate  dwelling  an  altar  shall  rise, 
The  song  of  thanksgiving  ascend  to  the  skies, 
E'en  now  the  night  fades,  and  the  cloud  is  withdrawn, 
Praise  God  for  the  light  of  the  glorious  dawn ! 
Peace !  peace  to  the  homes  of  our  beautiful  land, 
The  night  is  far  spent  and  the  day  is  at  hand ! 


WE    MUST    FIGHT    THE    BATTLE    OVEK. 


WE  MUST  FIGHT  THE   BATTLE  OVEK. 


WE  must  fight  the  battle  over, 

Rise !  ye  tried  and  gallant  few, 
Pledged  for  aye  to  truth  and  freedom, 

Gird  your  armor  on  anew  ! 
Sound  the  trump  !  unfurl  the  banner ! 

Proudly  let  the  standard  wave  ! 
"Born  to  conquer,"  is  our  motto — 

Motto  of  the  true  and  brave. 

Brothers  !  freemen !  would  ye  triumph, 

Would  ye  burst  the  galling  chain, 
Would  ye  crush  the  foe  forever, 

Would  ye  have  the  law  of  Maine  ? 
Ye  must  fight  the  battle  over, 

Ye  must  rise  to  fall  no  more, 
Armed  and  girded  for  the  struggle, 

Firmer,  stronger  than  before ! 

By  the  spreading  desolation, 

By  the  dark  and  fearful  blight, 
Shrouding  our  beloved  nation, 

In  one  long  and  starless  night — 
By  the  tears,  the  groans,  the  wailings, 

In  the  demon's  deadly  train, 
We  have  pledged  ourselves  to  conquer, 

Sworn  to  have  the  law  of  Maine ! 


THE    TEMPERANCE    JUBILEE.  173 

Though  the  foe  again  hath  triumphed, 

Shall  we  settle  tamely  down  ? 
Nay !  by  all  that's  pure  and  holy, 

We  will  wear  the  victor's  crown  ! 
We  will  form  our  brave  battalions, 

We  will  rally — not  in  vain — 
We  will  fight  the  battle  over, 

We  will  have  the  law  of  Maine ! 


THE  TEMPEEANCE  JUBILEE 

HH      Composed  for,  and  sung,   at  the  Semi-Centennial  Anniversary, 
April  13th,  1858. 

WITH  swelling  songs  of  grateful  praise 

We  greet  this  festal  morn, 
And  hail  the  day  when  Temperance, 

The  holy  thing,  was  born ; 
The  bright  earth  wore  a  gladder  smile, 

The  skies  a  purer  glow, 
When  came  the  blessing  to  our  world 

Just  fifty  years  ago. 

CHORUS : 
Come  let  our  choral  strains  ring  out, 

Swell  high  the  gushing  glee, 
All  hail !  with  stirring  song,  and  shout 

The  Temperance  Jubilee ! 


THE    TEMPERANCE    JUBILEE. 


Well  may  our  hearts  beat  high  to-day, 

Well  may  our  songs  arise, 
Our  voices,  in  one  hymn  of  praise, 

Peal  to  the  vaulted  skies ; 
A  glad  shout  woke  the  distant  spheres 

And  angels  smiled  we  know, 
When  Temp'rance  dawned  upon  our  world 

Just  fifty  years  ago. 

CHORUS: 
Come  let  our  choral  strains  ring  out, 

Swell  high  the  gushing  glee, 
All  hail !  with  stirring  song,  and  shout 

The  Temperance  Jubilee ! 

Hail !  to  the  joyous  festal  day ! 

Hail,  to  the  noble  band, 
Whose  watching  eyes  first  saw  the  light 

That  shines  o'er  all  the  land ! 
God  bless  this  day,  the  mighty  few, 

The  brave  men  of  Moreau 
Who  framed  the  consecrated  PLEDGE 

Just  fifty  years  ago ! 

CHORUS: 
Come  let  our  choral  strains  ring  out, 

Swell  high  the  gushing  glee, 
All  hail !  with  stirring  song,  and  shout 

The  Temperance  Jubilee ! 


"HALF  A  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO. 
"HALF   A  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO." 

A    POEM, 

Written  for  the  Semi-Centennial  Celebration  of  the   "  Temperance 
Society  of  Moreau  and  Northumberland/'  April  13,  1858. 


the  silver  trump  of  Freedom 

Through  Columbia's  spirit  thrills, 
And  the  deep  roar  of  her  cannon 

Thunders  o'er  the  sunrise  hills, 
Bells  ring  in  the  purple  morning, 

Banners  woo  the  whispering  hreeze, 
Clear  and  sweet  the  sound  of  laughter 

Ripples  o'er  the  summer  seas. 
To  the  list'ning  skies  ascending, 

Swells  the  birth-song  of  the  free, 
And  a  million  voices  blending, 

Hail  the  nation's  Jubilee  ! 

Not  to  strains  of  martial  music, 

Not  with  shouts  of  stirring  cheer, 
Chime  of  bells  and  peal  of  bugles, 

Have  we  met  exulting  here  ! 
Not  to  sing  how  freedom's  Angel 

'Mid  the  storm  of  battle  came, 
Waving  his  proud  wing  triumphant, 

O'er  the  burning  billows'  flame  ; 
But  to  tell  the  grateful  story, 

While  our  hearts  within  us  glow, 


176 


HALF    A    HUNDRED    YEARS    AGO. 


How  there  came  a  kindred  glory, 
Half  a  hundred  years  ago. 

'T  was  the  time  when  o'er  the  nation 

Hung  a  black  and  fearful  pall, 
And  the  wing  of  desolation 

Brooded  darkly  over  all, 
When  the  plaintive  wail  of  anguish 

Drowned  the  ringing  voice  of  mirth, 
And  the  glowing  embers  smouldered 

On  the  lonely  cottage  hearth, 
When  the  high-born  spirit  worshipped 

At  the  Tempter's  fatal  shrine, 
And  the  fire  of  Genius  faded, 

Quenched  within  the  sparkling  wine, 
And  the  eye  grew  dim  and  sunken, 

And  the  firm,  proud  step  grew  slow, 
Ere  there  came  a  saving  Angel, 

Half  a  hundred  years  ago. 

There  were  tears  and  bitter  wailings, 

There  were  groans  that  pierced  the  skies, 
And  through  all  the  land  the  weary 

Lifted  up  their  swimming  eyes. 
Childhood's  heart,  the  pure  and  tender, 

Shuddered  'neath  a  father's  frown, 
And  the  patient  soul  of  woman 

To  the  storm  bent  moaning  down. 
Mighty  men,  the  great  and  gifted, 

Groaned  beneath  the  fiery  chain, 


"HALF  A  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO. 

'Neath  the  Bum-King's  flaming  fetter, 
Burning  into  soul  and  brain, 

Then  the  vestal  fires  of  Freedom, 
Faded  from  our  virgin  strand, 

Deeper  grew  the  sunless  shadow — 
It  was  midnight  in  the  land  ! 

Oh,  'twas  beautiful,  'twas  holy, 

When  the  faint  and  feeble  light 
Twinkled  dimly  through  the  darkness 

Of  the  wild  and  starless  night. 
And  the  eyes  all  weary  watching 

Through  the  long  and  lonely  years, 
Saw  the  mellow  morning  twilight 

Through  a  mist  of  happy  tears ; 
Like  the  birth-star  of  the  Saviour, 

Very  still  and  soft  it  came, 
Lighting  up  earth's  mournful  places 

With  its  pure,  celestial  flame, 
Shining  o'er  the  cheerless  hearth-stone, 

Giving  back  the  olden  glow, 
To  the  pleasant  cottage  fire-light, 

Half  a  hundred  years  ago. 

Where  the  shapes  of  hell  were  wreathing 
Kound  the  lost,  despairing  soul, 

In  the  Babel  dens  of  madness, 
Even  there  the  glory  stole. 

And  there  came  a  dewy  softness, 


12 


HALF    A    HUNDRED    YEARS    AGO. 


O'er  the  wild  and  glaring  eye, 
And  the  burning  brow  grew  peaceful, 

With  a  purpose  calm  and  high  ; 
Then  the  daring  hand  uplifted, 

Sheathed  the  reeking  blade  of  Crime, 
And  the  saved  went  out  to  conquer, 

Girded  with  a  strength  sublime. 

In  the  drooping  soul  of  woman, 

'Neath  its  weight  of  anguish  bowed, 
Hope  unfurled  her  glowing  pinion, 

Like  the  rainbow  in  the  cloud, 
And  she  watched  the  sweet  revealing 

Breathless,  with  her  lips  apart, 
Till  the  morning-star  of  gladness 

Dawned  within  her  sinking  heart. 
And  the  deep  praise  of  her  spirit, 

Into  grateful  song  did  flow, 
For  this  Angel  of  her  household, 

Half  a  hundred  years  ago. 

Weary  children  saw  the  sunshine 

Breaking  through  the  leaden  skies, 
And  the  laughing  light  stole  sparkling 

To  the  mild,  beseeching  eyes ; 
O'er  the  tiny  forms  that  shivered, 

In  the  blighting,  chilling  cold, 
Warm  and  beautiful  it  quivered, 

Turning  all  the  gloom  to  gold, 
Sweeter  than  the  music  swelling 


"HALF    A    HUNDRED    YEARS    AGO. 

From  the  princely  palace  dome, 
Kang  the  voices  of  the  children, 
In  the  ransomed  drunkard's  home. 

Oh,  the  Pledge !  what  blessings  crowned  it ! 

There  was  joy  where'er  it  fell, 
Guiding  to  the  gushing  fountain, 

Where  the  crystal  waters  well — 
Turning  midnight  into  morning, 

Hushing  down  the  raging  storm, 
Giving  health,  and  grace,  and  vigor, 

To  the  bowed  and  reeling  form, 
Mingling  music  with  the  murmur, 

Of  the  streams  that  cool  did  flow, 
For  the  healing  of  the  nations, 

Half  a  hundred  years  ago. 

Hail !  thou  glad,  primeval  glory, 

Beacon  of  the  drunkard's  soul, 
Watch-light  on  the  lurid  ocean 

Where  the  waves  of  ruin  roll ! 
Hail !  thou  star  of  Temp'rance,  gleaming 

Through  the  clouded  spirit's  haze, 
And  the  feet  of  Error  guiding 

Into  Wisdom's  pleasant  ways. 
Oh,  what  hope  for  mourning  households 

Twinkled  in  thine  early  glow, 
Blushing  to  a  living  splendor, 

Half  a  hundred  years  ago ! 




HALF    A    HUNDRED    YEARS    AGO." 


What,  though  gath'ring  gloom  and  darkness 

From  our  skies  the  sun  would  blot, 
Yet  the  firm  faith  stands  unshaken, 

And  the  brave  heart  falters  not. 
By  the  glowing  heavens  o'er  us, 

By  the  Day-spring  shining  still, 
We  shall  swell  the  victor's  chorus, 

Till  the  answering  stars  shall  thrill. 
Conquest  waits  us  in  the  future, 

There 's  a  prouder  crown  to  win, 
We  will  force  the  gates  of  Triumph, 

We  will  enter  boldly  in. 

Lo !  the  skies  are  bright  with  promise, 

Clear  the  day  shall  break  at  last, 
In  the  beautiful  hereafter 

We  shall  glory  in  the  past. 
Hope  shall  change  to  full  fruition, 

Peace  shall  bless  our  favored  strand, 
When  the  sun  of  Prohibition 

Floods  with  cloudless  light  the  land. 
We  who  thank  the  great  All-Father, 

For  the  sunshine  and  the  rain, 
Then,  from  our  full  hearts,  shall  praise  Him, 

For  the  righteous  Law  of  Maine ! 

Tea !  though  clouds  have  gathered  o'er  us, 
Sometimes  shutting  out  the  ray 

Kadiant  with  the  holy  promise 
Of  the  full  resplendent  day, 


HALF    A    HUNDKED    YEARS    AGO. 


Well  we  know  the  hope  of  millions 

Hose  to  shine  triumphant  then, 
Kindled  by  the  living  purpose 

In  the  hearts  of  mighty  men ! 
Sisters  !  from  our  blended  spirits 

Let  the  tide  of  blessing  pour, 
In  one  grateful  shower  descending 

On  the  gallant  band  of  yore. 
Blessed  be  the  primal  fathers, 

Blessed  be  our  own  Moreau, 
Where  the  light  began  to  glimmer 

Half  a  hundred  years  ago  ! 

We  will  here  renew  the  promise ! 

Pass  around  the  PLEDGE  again ! 
While  we  lift  our  thankful  voices 

In  one  clear,  exulting  strain ! 
Let  the  bells  of  gladness  ringing 

Sweetly  peal  to  distant  lands. 
Break !  ye  mountains,  into  singing, 

And  ye  green  hills  clap  your  hands 
Shout  aloud  the  thrilling  story, 

Till  the  far-ofF  nations  know, 
How  there  dawned  a  day  of  glory, 

Half  a  hundred  years  ago  ! 


INDEPENDENCE. 


INDEPENDENCE, 

Written  for  the  Celebration  of  the  National  Anniversary  at  Fort 
Edward,  July  3d,  1858. 

WITH  music's  strains  and  cannon's  roar, 

And  glowing  stars  and  stripes  unfurled, 
The  children  of  the  fairest  shore, 

The  proudest  land  in  all  the  world, 
We  gather  in  thy  lofty  name, 

Beneath  thy  skies,  Oh  Liberty ! 
And  echoing  song  and  shout  proclaim 

It  is  the  birthday  of  the  Free ! 

The  everlasting  hills  rejoice 

And  spread  their  green  arms  to  the  sky, 
The  nation  lifts  her  mighty  voice, 

A  million  hearts  are  throbbing  high. 
The  pulse  of  youth  beats  full  and  fast, 

And  hoary  age  grows  young  again, 
While  quivering  with  the  storied  past, 

Ascends  the  glorious,  natal  strain. 

Aye,  many  a  grave  and  reverend  sire, 
Whose  locks  are  silvered  o'er  with  gray, 

Feels  in  his  heart  the  olden  fire, 

And  grows  a  hale,  young  man  to-day ; 

And  many  a  fair-haired,  blooming  boy, 
His  full  soul  "sparkling  in  his  eye," 


INDEPENDENCE. 


Joins  in  the  universal  joy, 

And  hurls  his  tiny  hat  on  high. 

A  wave  of  music  floods  the  land, 

The  summer  air  grows  sweet  with  song. 
While  here,  on  freedom's  soil,  we  stand, 

And  glad  huzzas  ring  loud  and  long ; 
Where  rose  of  old  the  trumpet's  sound, 

And  dark  the  cloud  of  hattle  lay, 
On  fair  Fort  Edward's  storied  ground, 

We  hail  this  proud,  triumphant  day. 

'T  is  meet  for  us  to  gather  here, 

Where  once  bright  bannered  armies  stood, 
And  brave  hearts  throbbed  with  lofty  cheers, 

And  freely  shed  their  sacred  blood. 
O'er  towering  hill  and  forest  glen, 

Hung  redly  down  a  cloud  of  flame, 
And  marshalled  hosts  of  gallant  men, 

Went  forth  in  Freedom's  holy  name. 

The  fearful  conflict's  deepening  roar, 

The  lurid  war-cloud's  fiery  gleam, 
Have  faded  from  the  pleasant  shore, 

Where  the  blue  Hudson  winds  its  stream  ; 
Bathed  in  the  sun-light's  golden  sheen, 

O'ershadowed  by  the  bending  skies, 
Imbosomed  in  her  hills  of  green, 

The  rural  village  peaceful  lies. 


INDEPENDENCE. 


Tall  churches  lift  their  slender  spires 

And  point  the  weary  pilgrim  home, 
And  where  the  wild  war  wreathed  its  fires, 

Proud  Science  rears  her  stately  dome ; 
There  many  a  bold,  high-hearted  youth, 

With  treasures  rich  his  mind  shall  freight, 
Learn  how  to  wield  the  sword  of  truth, 

And  guide  the  noble  ship  of  state. 

Where,  in  their  might,  the  millions  woke 

To  the  loud  trumpet's  clarion-peal, 
And  the  fierce  storm  of  battle  broke, 

And  rose  the  sound  of  clashing  steel. 
Melodious  on  the  clear  air  swells 

The  happy  music  of  the  free, 
The  silver  chime  of  ringing  bells, 

And  childhood's  voice  of  gushing  glee. 

Mid  the  glad  peal  of  loud  huzzas, 

And  songs  that  reach  the  skies  to-day, 
A  hush  comes  o'er  our  hearts,  we  pause — 

And  mourn  the  fate  of  Jane  McCrea. 
The  soft  wind  rustles  on  the  hill, 

And  whispers  in  the  sylvan  dell, 
The  waters  flash  and  murmur  still, 

Where  she,  the  Scottish  maiden  fell. 

Through  all  the  long,  warm  summer  hours, 
The  blue  birds  in  the  branches  sing, 

And  little  children  gather  flowers, 

Beside  that  clear  and  sparkling  spring. 


INDEPENDENCE. 


Aye,  hushed  hath  grown  each  warlike  sound, 
And  all  the  scenes  of  strife  have  fled, 

And  yet  we  call  this  holy  ground, 
On  which  with  reverent  feet  we  tread. 

Awed  by  the  consecrated  past, 

Through  the  dim  years  we  look  away 
We  hear  the  signal  bugle's  blast, 

And  live  those  olden  years  to-day. 
A  holy  flame  glows  in  each  soul, 

As  when  of  yore  went  o'er  the  sea, 
Majestic  as  an  anthem's  roll. 

The  DECLARATION  of  the  FREE  ! 

Oh,  Liberty !  thou  blessing  bought 

With  dying  patriot's  blood  and  groans, 
Thou  glorious  work  of  triumph  wrought 

In  orphans'  tears  and  widows'  moans ; 
Unholy  hands  profane  the  prize, 

The  victor's  crown  so  dearly  won, 
A  shadow  veils  thy  radiant  skies, 

A  spot  is  on  thy  sacred  sun ! 

Yea,  in  this  pleasant  land  of  ours, 

Where  warmly  shines  the  summer  light, 
Where  bloom  the  gorgeous,  tropic  flowers, 

And  glitter  birds  of  plumage  bright, 
There  on  the  soil  our  fathers  trod, 

The  slave  groans  'neath  the  fearful  ban, 
There,  man  the  "noblest  work  of  God," 

Hath  bought  and  sold  his  brother  man ! 


TO    MY    MOTHER. 


Spirit  of  Freedom  !  shalt  thou  droop 

Forever  thus,  a  fettered  thing  ? 
And  shall  our  own  proud  eagle  stoop 

With  dimming  eye  and  shattered  wing  ? 
Nay  !  by  our  stars  and  stripes  unfurled. 

This  favored  land  of  ours  shall  be, 
A  beacon-light  to  guide  the  world, 

The  glorious  home  where  all  are  FREE  ! 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

MOTHER  !  the  dearest  word  of  all 

That  human  lips  have  learned  to  say, 
Whose  tones  of  silver  sweetness  fall, 

Like  music,  on  my  heart  to-day ; 
How  beautiful  the  changeless  love, 

The  pure,  the  patient,  steady  flame, 
The  warm  light  kindled  from  above, 

That  glorifies  that  sacred  name ! 

Mother,  it  was  thy  guiding  hand 

That  led  me,  oh,  so  tenderly ! 
Up  the  green  hills  of  that  fair  land, 

Where  childhood's  pleasant  pastures  be ; 
When  clouds  came  o'er  the  purple  skies, 

And  shadows  o'er  my  spirit  stole, 
The  pitying  light  of  thy  soft  eyes, 

Gave  back  the  sunshine  to  my  soul. 




TO    MY    MOTHER. 


Cradled  within  thy  clasping  arms, 

And  folded  to  thy  faithful  breast, 
It  was  thy  gentle  voice  whose  charms 

Lulled  all  my  troubled  heart's  unrest ; 
In  the  dark  hour  when  sickness  came, 

And  wildly  throbbed  my  burning  brain, 
Thy  cool  hand  quenched  the  fever's  flame, 

And  soothed  away  the  weary  pain. 

Full  many  a  thread  of  silver  now, 

Is  gleaming  in  thy  glossy  hair, 
Ah !  time  hath  touched  thy  placid  brow 

And  left  faint  lines  of  sadness  there. 
Yet  by  the  tears  that  sometimes  start, 

When  thou  thy  wayward  child  doth  bless, 
Mother,  I  know  thy  warm,  true  heart 

Throbs  with  its  olden  tenderness. 

The  fount  still  gushes  full  and  free, 

The  old  smile  lights  thy  patient  face, 
And  the  dear  arms  that  cradled  me 

Still  fold  me  in  their  fond  embrace ; 
And  now,  as  in  the  early  years, 

I  turn  mej  like  a  weary  dove, 
From  all  life's  bitterness,  and  tears, 

Unto  thy  safe  and  sheltering  love. 

They  say  a  tie,  more  holy  still, 

Will  sometime  lure  me  from  thy  side, 

When  all  the  daughter's  soul  shall  thrill 
With  the  full  rapture  of  the  bride; 




THE    HOME    OF    WASHINGTON. 


But  though  our  flock  should  scattered  be, 
Though  from  the  fold  my  feet  may  roam, 

My  deepest  heart  will  cling  to  thee, 
The  guardian  angel  of  our  home. 

Mother,  once  more,  thy  sacred  name, 

With  hushed  and  reverent  lips  I  speak, 
A  sweet  joy  trembles  through  my  frame, 

My  spirit  bows,  and  words  grow  weak ; 
But  thou  canst  read  my  glowing  face, 

Thou  knowest  all  my  heart  so  well, 
And  there  thy  watching  eyes  shall  trace 

The  love  these  lips  may  never  tell. 


THE  HOME  OF  WASHINGTON. 

DEDICATED     TO    THE    LADIES1     MOUNT     VERJfON    ASSOCIATION. 

PLACE  to  our  Country's  heart  more  dear 

Than  all  beneath  the  sun ! 
What  fond  affections  cluster  round 

The  Home  of  Washington ! 
The  trees  he  loved  are  sacred  trees, 

The  paths  he  used  to  tread 
Are  voiceful,  with  a  thousand  tones 

That  whisper  of  the  dead. 

Oh !  who  shall  claim  the  cherished  spot — 
The  chamber  where  he  died  ? 


THE    HOME    OF    WASHINGTON. 

The  consecrated  place  where  sleeps 

A  nation's  love  and  pride  ? 
What  grateful  hand  shall  train  the  vines 

That  grace  the  homestead-bowers  ? 
And  whose  shall  be  the  precious  right 

To  wreathe  his  tomb  with  flowers  ? 

'T  is  Woman's  clear  and  thrilling  voice, 

Makes  blessed  answer  now, 
A  loving  light  is  in  her  eye 

Kesolve  is  on  her  brow : 
"  The  peace  that  crowns  our  cottage  homes 

His  fearless  courage  won ; 
We,  in  our  tenderness,  will  guard 

The  tomb  of  Washington." 


Yea,  let  the  glorious  work  be  ours, 

And  ours  the  holy  trust — 
To  hallowed  keep  the  hero's  home, 

And  guard  his  sacred  dust. 
Arise,  ye  daughters  of  our  land, 

The  proudest  'neath  the  sun, 
Arise !  and  join  us,  all  who  love 

The  name  of  WASHINGTON  ! 

LURA  A.  BOIES. 

Moreau,  Oct.  18,  1858. 


[101] 


"  Oh !  stream  of  life — The  violet  blooms 

But  once  beside  thy  bed ; 
But  one  brief  Summer  o'er  thy  path 

The  dews  of  Heaven  are  shed. 
The  parent-fountains  shrink  away, 

And  close  their  crystal  veins ; 
And  where  the  glittering  current  ran, 

The  dust  alone  remains." 


Hfffmnt,  in  (bag  rigpfct,  are  ti&e 

LITERARY  REMAINS 


LUKA  ANNA  BOIES. 

As  emanations  from  a  "  living  soul," 
With  power  of  rising  to  that  source's  height, 
They  may  be  likened  to  "  Siloa's  brook 
That  flowed  fast  by  the  oracle  of  God." 


"  Then  grieve  not  thou,  to  whom  the  indulgent  Muse 
Vouchsafes  a  portion  of  celestial  fire ; 
Nor  blame  the  partial  Fates,  if  they  refuse 
The  imperial  banquet,  and  the  rich  attire : 
Know  thine  own  worth,  and  reverence  the  lyre. 
Wilt  thou  debase  the  heart  which  God  refined  7 
No  ;  let  thy  heaven-taught  soul  to  heaven  aspire, 
To  fancy,  freedom,  harmony,  resigned  ; 
Ambition's  groveling  crew  for  ever  left  behind." 

BEATTIE'S  MINSTREL. 


[192] 


PKOPOSED   EPITAPH, 

For  Inscription  on  the  south  side  of  a  MONUMENT,  to  be  erected  in  the 
Fort  Edward  and  Sandy  Hill  Cemetery. 


HERE  REPOSE,* 

UNTIL  "BEAUTY  IMMORTAL  AWAKES  FROM  THE  TOMB," 
THE  "DUST-TO-DUST"  REMAINS 

OF 

LUKA  ANNA   BOIES, 

AUTHORESS  OF  "  EARTH'S  TRIUMPH-HOURS  ;" 

ONE  OF  THE  MOST  ILLUSTRIOUS  OF  WHICH 

WAS  THAT  OF  HER  DEPARTURE 

FROM  EARTH  AND  TIME. 

BORN,  ON  THE  2D  DAY  OF  MAY,  1835, 

A  POETESS WITH  GENIUS  EXCELLED  ONLY  BY  HER  MORAL  SENSIBILITY, 

WHICH,  LIKE  ADDISON,  RENDERED  VIRTUE  AMIABLE, 

AND,  LIKE  JOHNSON,  INCULCATED  IT  AS  AN  AWFUL  DUTY 

SHE  LEFT  THIS  WORLD  BEHIND  ^ 

ON  THE  15TH  APRIL,  A.  D.  1859, 

WHICH  BECAME,  TO  HER, 
"THE  CHRISTIAN'S  CORONATION-DAY!"! 

"  How  blest,  how  beautiful,  the  faith 
That  falters  not  in  view  of  death  ! 
That  lifts  the  trembling,  sinking  soul, 
And  points  it  to  the  dazzling  goal, 
That  throws  a  halo  o'er  the  tomb, 
And  gives  a  glory  to  its  gloom — 
That  looks  beyond  the  threatening  tide, 
Sees  Heaven's  glad  portals  opening  wide, 
Sees  the  strong  hand  reached  out  to  save, 
Clasps  it,  and  triumphs  o'er  the  grave !" 

She  sowed  in  sorrow  •  but  she  reaps  in  bliss 
Who  would  not  die,  to  live — like  her — again  1  $ 

*  Near  the  last,  and  perhaps  final,  grave  of  JANE  M'CREA,  heroine  of  a  principal  poem, 
contained  in  Miss  Boies'  book  of  "  Rural  Rhymes."    lAnte,  p.  17.] 
t  Ante,  page  63.  J  Ante,  page  98. 


13 


MEMOIR. 


THE  subject  of  this  memoir,  LURA  ANNA  BOIES,  was 
a  child  of  Mr.  JEROME  BOIES,  who,  having  emigrated 
from  Blandford  Hampden  county,  Massachusetts,  re 
sided,  at  the  time  of  his  daughter's  birth,  in  the  town 
of  Moreau,  Saratoga  county,  N.  Y.*  The  mother  of 

*Died.  at  Moreau.  on  Saturday,  the  24th  ult.,  Mr.  JEROME  Boies. 

His  obsequies,  including  a  sermon  by  Rev.  Prof.  King,  were  at  Fort 
Edward  on  the  27th  ult.,  and  the  interment  was  in  the  Sandy  Hill  and 
Fort  Edward  Cemetery.  Mr.  Boies'  remains  properly  repose  by  the 
side  of  his  daughter's  grave.  Concerning  him,  whom  she  correctly 
appreciated.  LURA  A.  BOIES  thus  composed  to  "  music  of  the  memory- 
bells,"  :<  tinkling  soft  and  low  :" 

"  My  father,  thou  art  still  the  same 

As  in  the  olden  time, 
When  I  was  but  a  tiny  girl 

And  thou  wert  in  thy  prime. 
Thou  hast  been  gentle  with  thy  child 

Through  all  her  wayward  years, 
Thou  hast  been  faithful  to  her  faults 

And  tender  to  her  tears. 

"  Nobly  thy  strong,  brave  heart  hath  borne 

The  pain  and  toil  of  life, 
Undaunted  by  the  cold  world's  scorn, 

Serene  in  all  the  strife. 
Thine  is  the  high  and  earnest  soul, 

The  courage  calm  and  bold, 
The  love  that  would  lay  down  the  life 

To  guard  thy  little  fold." 

Ante,  page  161. 

[195] 


MEMOIR. 


Lura  was  a  daughter  of  Doctor  Martin  Gillett,*  who 
removed  from  Canaan  in  the  county  of  Litchfield,  Con 
necticut,  to  Johnsburgh,  Warren  county,  N.  Y.,  dur 
ing  the  winter  of  1811.  At  the  time  of  that  removal, 
Hannah  J.  Gillett,  who  became  Mrs.  Boies,  was  but 
six  years  of  age  ;  and  in  charge  of  her  step-mother, 
whose  maiden  name  had  been  Lura — or,  as  she  spelled, 
Lury — Rathbun.  The  latter,  by  an  amiable  disposi 
tion,  lady-like  deportment  and  maternal  kindness,  so 
endeared  herself  to  the  family,  of  which  she  had  fortu 
nately  become  a  member,  that  her  honored  name  was, 
with  the  addition  Anna,  conferred  on  Mrs.  Boies' 
I  youngest  daughter,  whose  precocity  was,  while  yet  a 
4^  prattler,  observed  by  her  parents  and  neighbors.  Hav- 
S  ing?  without  any  particular  instruction,  learned  the 
y  alphabet,  Lura  was  allowed  to  attend  a  district-school ; 
although  she  was  then  so  small  as  to  be  frequently  car 
ried,  on  account  of  distance  (though  little  more  than  a 
mile)  and  inclemency  of  weather,  on  the  teacher's  back. 
She,  notwithstanding  diminutive  stature,  soon  became 
remarkable  for  sprightliness  and  proficiency.  At  about 
six  years  of  age  "  little  Lura"  began  to  talk  at  her  doll, 
in  rhymes,  and  by  another  year  reduced  them  to  writ 
ing,  on  both  sides  of  every  scrap  of  paper,  whether 
white  or  dark,  that  she  could  obtain — yet  her  first  pub 
lished  production  was  prose.  She  composed  it  when 
she  was  but  thirteen,  an  age  at  which  many,  if  not 
most,  girls  cease — if  they  have  ever  commenced — to 
think.  At  that  crisis  of  her  mental  condition,  increas- 
*  Both  names,  Boies  and  Gillett,  indicate  Huguenot-descent. 


M  E  M  0  I  R. 


ing  bashfulness,  even  to  the  verge  of  timidity,  charac 
terized  the  shrinking  child ;  her  extreme  sensitiveness 
becoming  almost  morbid,  and  causing  her  shyly  to  shun, 
in  some  solitude  that  she  sought,  the  society  of  visitors, 
by  whom  she  was,  nevertheless,  loved  and  praised.  One 
result  of  such  seclusion,  so  unusual  to  childhood,  espe 
cially  if  precocious,  is  the  production  in  prose,  to  which 
I  have  alluded.  It  was  written  in  consequence  of  a  call, 
by  the  Boston  Cultivator,  for  essays  of  youth  ;  the 
avowed  purpose  being  to  furnish  such  with  opportunity 
for  practice  and  competition.  Our  authoress'  selected 
title  is  "  The  Two  Maidens."  This  tale  of  the  times 
that  tried  men's  souls  was  transmitted,  according  to 
directions  contained  in  the  only  number  of  the  Boston 
Cultivator  which  Lura  had  then  perused.  She,  after 
accidental  exposure  of  her  first  attempt  in  prose,  acted 
on  her  mother's  advice,  and  by  persuasion  of  her  two 
sisters,  and  brother-in-law,  Rev.  Stephen  Fradenburgh, 
a  minister  in  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church.  Sus 
pense,  caused  by  delay  of  publication — for  which  Miss 
Boies'  inexperience  could  not  then  account,  from  a  sur 
plus  supply,  and  issues  only  per  week — became  to  her 
a  source  of  mortification  and  grief,  manifested,  in 
tensely,  although  silently,  by  weeping  and  despond 
ency.  She  had,  unconfidingly,  and  erroneously,  infer 
red  rejection  of  "  The  Two  Maidens,"  from  an  editorial 
paragraph,*  applicable  to  communications,  in  which 

*  "  Contributors  may  rest  assured  that,  should  articles,  occasionally 
come,  which,  in  our  opinion,  are  unsuited  for  publication,  they  will 
be  laid  aside  without  comment." 


198  MEMOIR. 


her  essay  was  not  included  ;  for  it  appeared,  to  her  sat 
isfaction,  verging  on  joy,  and  for  gratification  of  her 
friends,  in  a  number  issued  on  the  third  day  of  Novem 
ber,  1849.  Lura's  originality  of  thought  is  obvious  in 
the  commencement,  descriptive  of  rural  scenery,  which 
surrounding  her  residence,  was,  even  from  infancy, 
most  familiar,  and  fondly  frequented.  Characters,  in 
the  nature  of  dramatis  persona*,  are  well  defined,  and 
harmoniously  grouped.  Incidents  follow  in  rapid,  but 
not  confused  succession.  The  plot — conducing  to  a 
good  moral,  and  happy  end — is  developed  with  so  much 
simplicity  and  probability,  that  readers  are  not  per 
plexed  with  complication  ;  while  several  interesting 
and  consistent  catastrophes  are  combined  into  a  satis 
factory  and  patriotic  conclusion.  This  tale  may,  in 
deed,  be  regarded  as  a  correct  specimen  of  the  character 
of  its  authoress'  mind  ;  especially  in  tendency  to  pa 
thos,  after  it  had  been  thoroughly  matured.  With  due 
allowance  for  juvenility  and  inexperience,  Miss  Boies' 
"  Two  Maidens"  must  be  considered  as  an  extraordi 
nary  scintillation  of  intellect,  and  indication  of  nascent 
talent,  as  precursor  of  her  brilliant — alas  !  that  it  has 
been  but  a  brief — literary  career.  Miss  Boies'  editori 
ally-solicited  contributions — which  may  without  dis 
paragement  be  compared  with  many  moral  novelettes, 
written  by  Mrs.  Mary  C.  Vaughan,  or  Mrs.  Frances  D. 
Gage,  the  most  meritorious  of  modern  authors,  on  such 
subjects — were  continued,  to  the  Boston  Cultivator, 
several  years.  The  titles  of  some  were  as  follows : — 
•  Inflections  on  the  Seasons"— "  Thought"—"  Aunt  ft 




MEMOIR.  199  m 

0-f 


Emma's  Story,  or  The  Evils  of  Coquetry" — "  Helen 
Irving,  or  a  Sister's  Influence" — "  Sabbath-Twilight" 
— "  New  Years'  Festival" — an  article  on  slander,  and 
a  piece  on  music.  I  am  not  certain  that  I  have  men 
tioned  all  Miss  Boies'  contributions  to  the  Boston  Cul 
tivator,  or  that  their  titles  are  above  arranged  in  the 
chronological  order  of  publication,  which  was  annual ; 
Mrs.  Boies  having,  in  consequence  of  her  daughter's 
delicate  health,  and  predisposition  to  pulmonary. dis 
ease,  limited  her  to  that  time,  being  but  "  one  tale  a 
year."  No  restraint,  however,  was  imposed  as  to  verse, 
which,  to  our  poetess,  became  recreation,  instead  of  la 
bor.  Two  of  her  poems  appeared  in  the  Boston  Culti 
vator.  One  of  them  answered  a  new  year's  invitation  ,. 
to  "  an  intended  feast  of  reason  and  flow  of  soul,"  as  \ 
substitutes  for  roasted  turkey,  inebriating  beverage, 
and  tripping  on  the  light  fantastic  toe  :  The  other, 
proffering  reconciliation,  solicited  a  young  wife's  return 
to  her  marital  home,  and  was  actually  written  on  ur 
gent  request  of  "  the  forsaken  husband."  Our  poetess 
thus  occasioned  connubial  reunion  of  those  twain,  who 
had  separated,  without  adequate  cause,  or  even  suffi 
cient  excuse.  Blessed  be  such  peace-makers  !  espe 
cially  in  the  domestic  relations,  or  family-circles  !  One 
at  least,  I  am  confident,  has  been,  in  the  person  or 
rather  spirit  of  a  saint,  recently  rewarded,  according  to 
scriptural  promise.  [Matt.  5th  ch.  9th  v.]  Other  po 
ems,  including  "  Lines  to ,"  "  He  doeth  all  things 

A  well,"  and  "  Lines  to  my  Friend  on  the  Death  of  her 
Mother,"  were  published  in  the  Boston  Cultivator,     In  51 


MEMOIR. 

consequence  of  the  girl's  unexpected  success,  and  fail 
ure  cotemporaneously  of  others,  together  with  the  ac 
knowledged  excellence  of  her  communications,  all  of 
which  Avere  eagerly  accepted  and  rapidly  circulated, 
some  slight  suspicion,  concerning  her  authorship,  was 
intimated  to  a  lady-neighbor,  who  promptly  asserted, 
(as  she  repeated  on  the  day  of  her  favorite's  decease,) 
that  Lura  Boies  was  the  purest  person  she  had  ever 
known,  and  as  far  above  all  deception  as  heaven  is  high 
er  than  earth.  Yet,  for  furnishing  an  opportunity  to 
refute  all  insinuations,  that  lady  immediately  sent  to 
the  accused  some  hastily  written  and  facetious  verses 
of  covert  inquiry.  The  following  answer,  as  compliance 
with  the  interrogator's  wishes,"*  was — under  circum 
stances  which  forbade  all  collusion,  assistance,  or  pla 
giarism — forthwith  returned. 

*  "  I  wish  you  to  return  me  a  sonnet ;  and  if  you  let  this  be  seen 
by  your  brother  Stephen — remember — you  can  never  be  forgiven. 

M.  L." 

"  I  was  sadly  vexed  at  a  report  of  my  being  the  author  of  Mr. 
Fielding's  last  work, '  The  voyage  to  Lisbon.'  The  reason  which  was 
given  for  supposing  it  mine  was,  to  the  last  degree,  mortifying,  (viz. 
that  it  was  so  very  bad  a  performance,  and  fell  so  far  short  of  his 
other  works,  it  must  needs  be  the  person  with  him  who  wrote  it.) 
This  is  the  disadvantageous  light  poor  women  are  held  in,  by  the  ill- 
nature  of  the  world.  If  they  write  well,  and  very  ingeniously,  and 
have  a  brother,  then,  to  be  sure — '  She  could  not  write  so  well ;  it 
was  her  brother's,  no  doubt.'  If  a  man  falls  short  of  what  is  expect 
ed  from  his  former  genius  in  writing,  and  publishes  a  very  dull  and 
unentertaining  piece,  then, '  To  be  sure,  it  was  his  sister,  or  some  wo 
man  friend  who  was  with  him.'  Alas !  my  good  Mr.  Richardson,  is 
not  this  a  hard  case  1 — To  you  I  appeal,  as  the  only  candid  man,  I 
believe,  with  regard  to  women's  understanding ;  anc}.  indeed,  their 
only  champion  and  protector,  I  may  say,  in  your  writings ;  for  you 
write  of  angels,  instead  of  women."  Miss  COLLIER'S  Letter. 


M  E  M  O I B. 


tfcfe 


"TO  MRS.  LEWIS. 

Thou  hast  tuned  thy  lyre  to  a  pensive  strain, 
And  welcomed  the  muse  of  thy  youth  again — 
Thou  hast  told  of  the  days  long  since  gone  by, 
When  no  cloud  was  seen  in  thy  sunny  sky, 
Ere  thy  hand  had  swept  o'er  the  golden  key 
That  unlocked  the  page  of  futurity. 

Thou  saidst  that  the  days  of  thy  youth  were  bright, 
That  thy  song  was  gay,  and  thy  step  was  light, 
That  Nature's  soft  beauties,  were  dear  to  thine  eye, 
That  Time's  golden  moments  passed  pleasantly  by, 
And  you  deemed  not  then  in  those  sunbright  hours, 
That  poison  oft  lurks  'neath  the  fairest  flowers. 

Then  tell  me,  dear  lady,  are  visions  so  fair, 
That  dawn  on  our  girlhood,  but  castles  in  air? 
Are  the  bright,  bright,  pictures  upheld  to  the  eye, 
But  the  dreams  of  a  moment,  which  quickly  pass  by  ? 
Are  Hope's  gorgeous  sun-beams,  which  circle  our  way, 
But  a  halo  of  glory,  that  fades  in  a  day  ? 

Oh !  surely  the  sunlight  of  Hope  will  not  fade, 

It  will  soothe,  when  weary,  and  charm  us  when  sad ; 

It  will  picture  the  glory  which  waits  us  above, 

Where,  bathed  in  the  sunshine  of  heavenly  love, 

No  shadows  will  darken,  no  sorrows  can  come, 

And  angels  of  beauty  will  welcome  us  home.  LTJKY. 

P.  S. — If  you  criticise  these  verses, 

Sad  indeed  will  be  my  doom, 
For  there  's  nothing  to  inspire  me, 
But  the  music  of  the  loom  ; 


202  M  E  M  0 1 E. 


Then  I  trust  that  you  will  kindly 

Pass  their  imperfections  by ; 
And  I  hope  you  '11  not  expose  them 

To  the  gaze  of  mortal  eye.          LURY  A.  BOIES." 

Discovering  no  date  to  the  manuscript  from  which  I 
have  copied,  I  can  merely  conjecture,  from  the  producing 
occasion,  that  when  'this  answer  was  composed  Miss 
Boies  was  about  fourteen  years  old.  Such  supposition 
is  confirmed  by  the  facts  that  a  hand-loom  was — in 
despite  of  water  and  steam-power  machinery  for  weav 
ing — yet  used  in  her  father's  family,  and  that  the  hand 
writing  seems  to  have  been  in  its  transition  state,  from 
the  cramped  awkwardness  of  childhood  to  the  correct 
and  elegant  chirography  of  her  later  years,  when,  on 
?•?;?  suggestion  of  a  female  friend,  the  spelling  of  her  chris-  : 
y  tian  name  was  changed  from  Lury,  as  in  the  above 
signature,  to  Lura  ;  she  having,  with  judgment  and 
taste,  declined  the  fashionable — I  had  almost  written, 
not  wise — termination  in  "  ie." 

From  the  time,  however,  when  Mrs.  Lewis  trium 
phantly  exhibited  Miss  Boies'  epistolary  and  poetical 
answer — whether  I  must,  or  may,  not  add  to  our  hy 
pothesis  about  fourteen,  "  be  the  same  more  or  less" — 
there  has  been  not  even  a  rumor  that  she  had  palmed 
upon  the  public  productions  of  another,  as  her  own 
composition  ;  and  the  utter  absurdity  of  such  silly  re 
ports  became  more  and  more  obvious,  as  our  author 
ess,  by  her  own  unassisted  genius,  ascended,  with  sylph- 
like  ease,  gracefulness  and  quietude,  to  her  appropri 
ate  niche  in  the  temple  of  fame. 


MEMOIR. 


203 


Miss  -Boies'  poetical  contributions  were  not  confined 
to  the  Boston  Cultivator.  After  the  Temperance 
Helper  had  been  established  at  Ballston  Spa,  Sarato 
ga  co.,  N.  Y.,  its  editor  received  from  her  two  poems — 
one,  "  The  Law  of  Maine,"  and  another,  "  The  Drunk 
ard's  Wife" — both  of  which  were  much  admired,  and 
have  been  republished  as  "  Rural  Rhymes/'*  She  also 
published,  in  newspapers  conducted  by  such  men  as 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Milne,  and  Doctor  Bungay^  each  of  whom 
appreciated  her  merit,  and  encouraged  to  perseverance 
in  her  educational  projects.  Her  anxiety  on  that  sub 
ject  is  considerately  expressed  in  a  letter  addressed  to 
an  inquiring  friend.  "  My  prospects,  for  pursuing  and 
completing  a  course  of  study,  are  quite  uncertain  ;  yet 
I  do  not  despond.  From  childhood  it  has  been  my  ar 
dent  desire  to  obtain  an  education,  and  I  cannot  think 
the  aspirations  thus  early  awakened,  the  inward  long 
ings  to  drink  from  the  sealed  fountains,  and  explore 
the  hidden  realms  of  knowledge,  ivere  born  to  die.  I 
fear  not  to  trust  my  future  with  my  Heavenly  Father  ; 
for  something  within  tells  me,  ( the  end  is  not  yet/  and 
I  believe  the  way  will  be  opened,  by  which  my  bright 
est  dreams,  and  fondest  hopes,  shall  be  realized." 

Miss  Boies'  means  of  instruction  had  been  limited  to 
a  primitive  kind  of  common  school,  and  she  viewed 
with  "joy  unspeakable"  the  walls  of  a  Collegiate  Insti 
tute,  as  they  gradually  arose,  at  Fort  Edward,  and  in 
sight  from  her  father's  habitation,  situated  on  the  west 

O  J 


*  Ante,  pages  163  and  167. 


MEMOIR. 

shore  of  the  Hudson.  Day  after  day  she  watched  the  » 
progress,  toward  completion,  of  that  edifice,  on  which  I 
had  concentrated  all  her  temporal  hopes,  and  she,  rap 
turously,  hailed  the  first  light  from  its  stately  attics, 
as  if  it  had  heen  a  star  in  the  east.  In  that  seminary 
of  science — for  it  is  such  indeed — when  summoned  by 
the  welcome  sound  of  its  surmounting  bell,  so  sooth 
ing  and  grateful  to  her  heart,  sickened  by  suspense 
and  steeped  in  sorrow,  Miss  Boies,  with  buoyant  spir 
its  and  recuperative  energy,  began  her  classical  studies,* 
and  continued — not,  however,  without  discouraging, 
and  even  tantalizing,  interruption — her  course  of  in 
dustry  and  success,  until,  under  peculiar  circumstances, 
she  graduated,  with  the  crowning  honors  of  her  class. 
She  had  crowded  into  her  last  two  terms  the  ordinary  | 
studies  of  three  ;  including  some  higher  branches  of 


*  The  following  extract  from  Miss  Boies'  diary  shows  the  observa 
tion  and  feelings  of  a  novitiate,  whose  domestic  habits  had  been  dis 
turbed  by  a  whole  day's  absence,  and  one  mile's  distance,  from  her 
beloved  home,  to  which,  like  the  fledgeling,  after  first  flight  from  its 
nest,  she  longed  for  return  at  night.  So  child-like,  with  such  matu 
rity  of  mind : 

"Fort  Edward,  Dec.  7th,  '54.  Well,  I  have  left  the  broad  shadow 
of  the  parental  roof,  and  am  now  snugly  ensconced  within  the  classic 
walls  of  the  Fort  Edward  Institute.  I  have  a  very  pleasant  room,  sit 
uated  on  the  second  floor.  My  room-mate,  Miss  Ward,  appears  to  be 
an  agreeable  and  intelligent  girl.  She  introduced  me  to  Miss  King, 
the  Preceptress.  She  is  a  lovely  lady  to  appearance,  graceful,  pleas 
ing  and  accomplished.  She  called  on  us  a  few  moments  this  after 
noon.  I  have  not  yet  been  introduced  to  the  Principal ;  he  addressed 
the  students  after  tea,  and  said  they  intended  to  be  ready  to  attend 
recitations  Monday.  I  have  not  yet  been  '  homesick,'  though  I  felt 
rather  sad  last  night  at  the  thought  of  leaving  home.  I  would  like 
to  take  a  peep  at  Pa  and  Ma,  and  dear  sisters  ;  but  that  cannot  be." 


MEMOIR.  205 


mathematics,  and  Cicero's  orations  ;  the  last,  from  dif- 
fusedness  of  style,  with  liberal  transposition,  and  scat 
tering  of  words,  being,  for  translation  and  parsing,  the 
most  difficult  study  among  Latin  authors.  Our  read 
ers,  therefore,  will  not  be  surprised  when  informed  that 
several  days  before  the  collegiate  commencement,  or 

*/  .7 

Institute  exhibition,  in  April,  1857,  the  health  of  Miss 
Boies  was  so  much  impaired  that  she  was  constrained 
to  leave  for  home,  and  occupy  there  a  bed  of  sickness. 
Having  rallied,  however,  by  mere  force  of  indomitable 
resoluteness,  and  in  consequence  of  salutary  repose  in 
her  own  "  dulce  dulce  domum" — and  "there's  no  place 
like  home  !" — she  returned  to  Fort  Edward,  where, 
at  Alma  Mater,  after  another  week  of  anxiety  had 
:f  "  dragged  its  slow  length  along,"  Miss  Boies,  in  pres-  | 
II  ence  of  her  gratified  parents  and  numerous  friends  and 
|  congratulating  companions,  appeared,  for  conclusion  of 
that  term's  academic  exercises,  before  an  impatient  au 
dience,  expecting  much  from  her  reputation  as  a  poet 
ess,  and  assiduity  as  a  scholar  ;  but  more  especially 
from  her  last-years'  class  task,  or  premium  poem,  enti 
tled  "  The  Blind  Bard  of  England,"  which  had  been 
printed  in  several  periodicals,  and  republished  in  a  me 
tropolitan  and  phrenological  magazine,  as  the  best 
modern  specimen  of  ideality.*  When,  therefore,  at  a 
late  hour,  and  to  a  fatigued  auditory  uncomfortably 
crowded  in  a  straight-back-seated  chapel,  the  aisles 
and  other  passages  of  which  were  thronged  with  up- 


*  Ante,  page  52. 


MEMOIR. 


standers  and  by-standers,  "  the  Valedictory,  by  Miss 
Lura  A.  Boies,"  was  announced,  a  "  hush  came  o'er" 
the  house,  departing  footsteps  were  stayed,  and  "  the 
observed  of  all  observers"  was  received  with  respectful 
silence  ;  interrupted  only  by  an  earnest  request,  "  please 
to  be  seated,  that  we  may  all  see  and  hear."*  While 
the  universal  favorite  was  coming,  calmly  and  grace 
fully  forward  to  her  central  position  on  the  stage,  or 
rather  platform,  it  became  obvious  that  she  was  of  deli- 

*  The  following  coternporaneous    account  of  this  occurrence  ap 
peared  in  the  Fort  Edward  Ledger  : 

Miss  Boies'  Valedictory  Poem,*  the  principal  subject  of  which  is 
"  Earth's  Triumph  Hours,"  (published  in  the  last  number  of  the  Fort 
Edward  Institute  Magazine,)  omitted  the  most  signal  triumph  on  that 
occasion.     For  supplying,  therefore,  what  delicacy  declined,  the  fol-  ^ 
lowing  is  submitted  as  supposed  to  have  been  uttered  by  an  auditor,  s 
(not  Luke  Lichen,  who  silently  thought  it,)  when  he  heard  the  final  '<• 
farewell,  succeeded  by  Professor  King's  address,  (in  the  nature  of  a 
baccalaureate)  to  his  graduating  class. 

Thy  "  triumph  hour"  was  when  that  teordt 

Was  sympathetically  spoken ; 
As  if  life's  bowl  and  silver  cord,:f 

At  bible-fountain  had  been  broken  : 
Yet  none  were  "  numbered  with  the  dead  ;" 

Though  many  living  were  to  part, 
AVhen  ONE,  j  best  knowing,  proudly  said 

"  That  such  as  thou  hast  been  and  art, 
Pupils  of  thine  may  always  be, 

(To  make  them  so  God  grant  thee  power !) 
Is  the  best  boon  I  can  wish  thee." 

That — L***— was  thy  "  triumph  hour." 

'Deferred  of  course  until  a  late  hour,  whon,  after  protracted  (but  profitable) 
examination  and  exhibition,  the  Principal,  Professor  Kini;,  announced  to  a  fa 
tigued  and  crowded  auditory,  "  Miss  Lura  A.  Boies,"  and  added,."  you  always  listen 
to  her  with  silence  and  pleasure  ;"  which,  as  a  prediction  from  the  past,  was  instan 
taneously  verified.  The  reason  had  that  day  been  hinted  in  a  biographical  sketch 
concerning  Henry  Ward  Beecher,  of  whom  was  correctly  stated  that  "  he  always 
adapted  himself  to  his  audience;"  and  it  might  be  truly  added,  that  he  also  soon 
adapted  his  audience  to  himself.  Both  observations  are  remarkably  appli 
the  taste  and  judgment  and  tact  of  Miss  Boies,  who  is  always  "  true  to 


MEMOIR. 


cate  form,  with  an  intellectual  countenance  and  pleas 
ing  address.  Her  apparel  was,  conformably  to  custom 
on  such  occasions,  altogether  white,  except  a  lilac- 
colored  sash,  and  her  hair  tastefully  arranged,  with 
becoming  style — strictly  followed  in  a  frontispiece, 
engraved  expressly,  for  the  first  edition  of  "Rural 
Rhymes."  In  fine,  she  looked  her  own  household- 
angel,  and,  in  keeping  with  that  character,  perform 
ed  (without  acting)  her  part,  to  perfection.*  Al 
though  her  voice  was  low-toned  its  distinctness  of 
utterance,  with  proper  accent  and  emphasis,  rendered 
audible  to  each  listener  throughout  a  spacious  chapel, 
every  syllable  of  the  most  elegant,  pathetic  and  philo 
sophic  poem,  which  has  graced  any  collegiate  com 
mencement  since  the  embryo-Bishop  Heber's  triumph 
ant  departure  from  the  University  of  Oxford,  via  Pal 
estine,  to  India's  coral-strand.  So  much  for  "Earth's 
Triumph  Hours/'f  effectively  repeated,  with  but  one 
momentary  reference  to  an  unornamented  hand-held 
paper-scroll,  in  a  spirited,  but  not  theatrical  style  ; 

*Ante,  pages  44  and  108.  -\Ante,  page  105. 

and  can  rely  on  her  own  mental  resources.     Indeed.  Miss  Boies  is  a  rare  illustra 
tion  of  the  classical  adage,  "  poeta  [poetria]  nascitur  nonf'." 
t  "  We  pause — a  hush  comes  o'er  the  soul, 

And  bows  it  in  an  hour  hkt-;  this, 
When  the  heart's  beating  seems  to  toll 

The  death-knell  of  the  parted  bliss  ! 
The  secret  fount  within  is  stirr'd. 

Higher  the  gushing  waters  swell, 
The  lip  may  breathe  one  only  word, 

Strangers,  and  loved  ones,  all,  FAREWELL." 

t  "  Or  ever  the  silver  cord  be  loosed,  or  the  golden  bowl  be  broken,  or  the  pitcher 
be  broken  at  the  fountain,  or  the  wheel  broken  at  the  cistern  ;  then  shall  the  dust 
return  to  the  earth,  as  it  was ;  and  the  spirit  shall  return  unto  God,  who  f?ave  it." 
Professor  King. 


208  MEMOIR. 


yet  coming  fully  up  to  Garrick's  estimate  of  the  differ 
ent  degrees  of  belief,  manifested  by  play-actors  and 
gospel-preachers.  And  yet  this  is  the  same  shrinking, 
timid,  little  country  girl  to  whom  one  of  the  spectators 
of  that  most  signal  triumph  of  her  genuine  scholarship 
and  genius  had,  a  few  weeks  before,  at  evening  twi 
light,  been  formally  introduced,  with  so  little  opportu 
nity  of  seeing  her  face,  or  hearing  her  voice,  that,  fear 
ing  he  might  not,  on  casual  meeting,  recognize  her 
again,  he  asked  Professor  Ames  to  point  -her  out, 
among  her  numerous  companions  in  the  chapel  gal 
lery  ;  where,  as  Professor  Lewis  of  the  Troy  Univer 
sity  gallantly  remarked,  the  lamps  hung  "  a  little 
lower  than  the  angels."  Professor  Ames'  answer  was, 
"  I  can't,  because  Miss  Boies  never  comes  here  except 
for  gymnastic-exercise,  class-recitations,  and  religious 
service.  She  is  usually  in  her  room,  where,  on  account 
of  her  gentle  manners  and  quiet  habits,  we  have  loca 
ted  her  next  to  my  family."  In  the  retirement  of  that 
family,  where  this  amiable  girl,  familiarly  and  accepta 
bly,  came  to  kiss  and  caress  a  pretty,  playful  child,  the 
writer  of  this  imperfect  biographical  sketch  next  saw 
Miss  Boies,  and  trusts,  from  vividness  of  an  impression 
indelibly  left  on  his  memory,  not  to  be  numbered 
among  those  whom,  in  a  fragmentary  article,  she  thus 
described  :  "  They  cannot  interpret  the  language  of 
the  face  ;  they  know  nothing  of  the  eloquence  of  si 
lence."  Yes,  patient  readers  !  this  was  the  same  un 
assuming  girl  whose  short,  slight  figure  seemed,  as 
her  valedictory  progressed,  growing  into  tallness  and 


MEMOIR.  209 


strength,  until  it  meekly  and  unaffectedly  retired  from 
merited  and  reiterated,  but  subdued  applause.  If  you 
would  know  the  cause  of  such  remarkable  change  in 
the  little  school  girl  of  a  "rural  district,"  and  her 
moral  courage  and  indefatigable  persistence,  listen,  ye 
who  would  learn  a  lesson  of  wisdom,  to  the  memory 
of  words  that  fell,  in  affection  and  affliction,  from  her 
mother's  lips.  When  Lura  had  accepted,  with  thank 
fulness  and  delight,  her  parents'  proposal  to  complete 
her  education  at  the  Fort  Edward  Institute,  where  a 
suitable  room  had  already  been  selected  for  that  pur 
pose,  her  mother,  reprovingly  yet  kindly,  spoke  confi 
dentially  of  her  daughter's  timidity  and  shyness ;  en 
treating  her,  if  possible,  to  overcome  such  embarrass-  A 
ment,  that  might  in  a  public  school  composed  (unlike 
a  nunery)  of  both  sexes  become  uncomfortable,  incon 
venient  and  perhaps  detrimental.  From  that  moment, 
by  an  impulsive  yet  continuous  effort  of  determination, 
sustained  by  sense  of  duty  and  decision  of  character, 
Lura  so  completely  conquered  her  natural  propensity 
for  retirement,  and  so  thoroughly  overcame  her  nerv 
ous  timidity,  that  baslifulncss  was  converted  into  mod 
esty,  and  shyness  into  sociability ;  while  firmness  of 
purpose  and  perpetual  self-control  Became  the  noble 
characteristics  of  her  future  life.  Those  admirable 
qualities,  whether  inherent — although  undeveloped  un 
til  evoked  by  a  mother's  sagacity,  or  acquired  from  a 
well-sustained  endeavor  to  overcome  an  infirmity  that 
"  leaned  to  virtue's  side"  of  her  nature — were  in  faith- 


ful  and  constant  exercise  during  all  the  discouragement 


U 


MEMOIR. 


and  distress  of  her  death-bed  sickness,  and  survived  its 
agony.  Miss  Boies'  social  desires  and  fervent  affection 
for  her  relatives,  her  unfailing  love  of  nature,  (trans 
cended  only  by  her  love,  sanctified  with  reverence,  for 
the  God  of  nature,)  her  hope  of  contributing  to  the 
happiness  of  our  race,  together  with  much  sincere 
friendship  which  she  had  attracted  from  all  her  ac 
quaintance,  daily  becoming  more  numerous,  and  her 
brightening  prospect  of  usefulness  from  literary  attain 
ment  earning  its  reward,  for  the  benefit  of  her  kindred, 
rendered  the  patient — and  such  indeed  she  was — exces 
sively  anxious  for  restoration  to  health.  Yet  when  the 
fatal  malady  which  afflicted  her  with  indescribable  an 
guish,  shadowed  forth  by  infallible  symptoms  its  speedy 
termination  in  the  decease  of  its  victim,  her  spirit 
yielded  with  martyr-like  fortitude  and  resignation  to  the 
sad  summons  from  her  temporal  destroyer,  inexorable 
death.  Suffice  it  to  say,  concerning  such  final  depart 
ure  of  the  perfected  just,  that  Lura  Anna  Boies  left  this 
world  behind  with  as  much  calmness  and  self-control 
as  if  she  had  been  in  unfailing  health,  and  hope,  and 
joy,  about  to  visit  those  whom  she  loved  on  earth. 
Her  accustomed  courtesy  continued  to  the  last  moment 
of  her  terrestrial  existence  ;  for  after  she  had  directed 
as  to  her  funeral,  and  while  she  was  uncomplainingly 
struggling  with  the  spasmodic  pangs  of  immediate 
dissolution,*  she  kindly  and  gracefully  dismissed  from 

*  The  "  aching  void"  of  starvation  ;  a  cancerous  tumor  having  filled 
her  stomach,  from  which  nutriment  of  food  was  thereby  excluded. 
The  patient  had  discovered,  by  palm-pressure,  this  inevitable  and  ex- 


MEMOIR. 


the  chamber,  where  like  Dr.  Young's  good  man,  she 
was  heroically  meeting  her  fate,  an  old  friend  whom 
she  had  summoned  to  a  final  interview,  closed  by  her 
request  that,  if  she  lived,  he  would  soon  call  on  her 
again.  Instead,  within  a  few  melancholy  hours,  that 
friend  was,  in  common  with  the  whole  community,  one 
of  many  mourners  over  the  corse  of  a  person,  than  whom 
no  nobler  mortal  has  been  permitted  by  her  presence  to 
bless  a  world,  on  which  her  genius  is  destined  to  shed 
its  hallowed  light  and  benignant  influence.  W.  H. 


POSTSCEIPT. 

After  the  above  memoir  had  been  written,  I  received, 
in  compliance  with  my  request,  from  Mrs.  Fradenburgh, 
an  interesting  biography  of  her  lamented  sister,  and  an 
appended  statement  prepared  by  her  mourning  mother. 
To  those  papers,  which  furnish  just  such  information 
as  most  of  our  readers  may  judiciously  desire,  the  pre^ 
ceding  sketch  will  serve  as  an  introduction  :  Yet  I  beg 
leave,  in  addition,  to  submit  a  few  of  my  own  observa^ 
tions  concerning  the  beauty  in  Lura  Anna  Boies'  "daily 
life  ;"  however  comprehensive  in  this  connection  that 
phrase  may  be  deemed. 

I  have  from  the  force  of  circumstances — not,  howev 
er,  for  criticism,  but  for  correction— been  a  censor  of 

cruciating  cause  of  death  ;  thus  correcting  medical  supposition  that 
Miss  Boies  had  been  suffering  so  acutely  from  dyspepsia  alone. 


MEMOIR. 


defects  in  woman's  manners,  and  I  can  confidently  as 
sert  that,  with  ample  opportunity  for  remark,  I  never 
detected  in  Miss  Boies'  deportment  even  one  of  those 
defects,  or  the  slightest  approximation  to  it. 

That  extraordinary  self-possession  which  rendered 
her  adequate  to  every  emergency,  and  qualified  her  for 
any  station  she  was  properly  required  to  occupy — and 
she  could  be  found  in  no  other — was  always  operative, 
but  never  apparent.  Hence,  as  above  observed,  her 
manners  were  excellent,  and  her  deportment  correct,  in 
every  particular.  Neither  could  have  been  improved 
if  she  had  studied  as  her  pattern  of  attainable  perfec 
tion  either  Mrs.  Antoinette  L.  Brown  Blackwell,  or 
Miss  Susan  B.  Anthony.  I  was  never  acquainted  with  J-l 
a  person  who  more  thoroughly  than  Miss  Boies  under 
stood  Baron  Knigg's  "  Practical  Philosophy  of  Social 
Life."  A  pleasant  and  significant  smile  often  played 
upon  her  countenance  ;  whether  in  cheerful  or  pensive 
mood.  Her  soft,  sweet,  unaffected  voice — "  an  excel 
lent  thing  in  woman" — was  with  fitting,  although  un 
studied  "  sound,  corresponding  with  the  sense,"  modu 
lated  into  words  so  pleasantly  spoken,  in  proper  time 
and  place,  as  to  be  "  like  apples  of  gold  in  pictures  of 
silver."  In  fine,  I  have  often  asked  experts  in  matters  of 
taste,  and  after  they  had  enjoyed  favorable  opportunity 
for  .forming  an  opinion,  "  did  you  ever  discover,  or  even 
!  suspect,  any  fault  in  Lura  Boies?"  and  the  invariable 
|  response  has  been  unequivocally  "  no  !"  To  that  mon 
osyllabic  answer  the  judgment  and  candor  of  every 
hearer  cordially  assented.  So  true  it,  is  that,  of  her, 


MEMOIR. 


may  be  unqualifiedly  repeated,  "  none  knew  her  but  to 
love  her ;  none  named  her  but  to  praise." 

Miss  Boies  was  in  all  respects  what,  as  a  model  of 
mind  and  morals — both  greater  and,  as  defined  by  Lord 
Chesterfield,  lesser,  or  by  Goldsmith  as  minor — an 
American  lady,  or  rather  woman,  signifying  more,  should 
be ;  and  of  which  one  in  a  century  seems,  as  in  Mrs. 
Grant's  instance  of  Madame  Schuyler,  to  be  neither 
too  few  nor  too  far  between.  Thus  in  Miss  Boies'  case, 
the  child  was  mother  of  the  strong  minded  woman  ;* 
dispensing  with  intermediate  girlhood.  Her  entire  life 
was,  in  and  of  itself,  almost  instinctively  a  poem,  rural 
to  be  sure,  but  at  the  same  time  heroic  ;  because  of  its 
intellectual  grandeur  and  moral  sublimity.  Nature, 
in  whose  heaven-arched  home  Miss  Boies,  like  Words 
worth,  "  kept  her  study,"  was  consonant  to  her  taste, 
and  congenial  with  her  sensibility.  The  "spirit  of 
song,"f  soaring  with  lark-like  carol  at  morning-dawn 
hovered,  like  bees  of  Hybla,  over  her  head  and  heart  at 
noontide,  and  with  evening  twilight  settled  down  as 
"  a  strange  and  beautiful  mystery"  upon  her  soul4 
This  soul  of  poesy  had  been  inspired  by  that  "spirit  of 
song"  which,  as  another  Ariel,  was  submissive  by  day 
to  the  wand  of  a  more  powerful  magician  than  Pros- 

*  This  phrase,  which  I  have  applied  to  Miss  Boies  in  its  primitive 
and  proper  sense,  has  become  a  term  of  reproach  among  some  who 
might,  on  free  traslation  of  Proverbs,  ch.  27  and  22d  verse,  be  brayed 
in  a  mortar,  and  yet  continue  to  bray.  A  few  such  censurers — weak- 
minded,  but  self-willed  or  conceited — were,  as  to  Miss  Boies  reading 
her  own  address  on  the  subject  of  temperance,  rebuked  by  public  con 
tempt  into  silence,  if  not  common  sense. 

t  Ante,  page  57.  t  Ante,  page  59. 


MEMOIR. 


pero ;  and  like  that  beneficent  fairy  on  its  mission  of 
melody,  whispered  messages  of  mercy  in  the  dreamy 
ear  of  moonlit  midnight,  serenaded  as  if  by  the  Flo- 
ridian  nightingale's  unparalleled  notes.*  Destitute  of 
that  spirit  of  song,  the  most  classically  constructed, 
elaborately  finished,  and  skillfully  polished  verse  resem 
bles  genuine  poetry  no  more  than  does  an  unvivified 
statue,  or  machine  manikin  resemble  their  model-man, 
who  unconciously  enjoying  heart-circulation  of  blood 
and  lung-breath  of  life,  is  endued  with  an  immortal 
soul,,  some  of  the  effects  of  which  even  artistic  genius 
can  only  imitate.  Our  poetess,  encouraged  and  inspired  I 
by  that  spirit  of  song  which  infused  itself  into  the  tex 
ture  and  tint  of  her  verse,  uniformly  acted  as  if  to-day 
was  her  "  all  of  life  ;"f  thereby  implicitly  observing  her 
own  admirable  direction,  condensed  in  a  practical  po 
em,  appropriately  entitled  "  Earnest."^:  When  we  cal 
culate  how  much  Miss  Boies  so  accomplished  during  a 
short  and  weary  life,  and  reasonably  allow  for  its  dis 
turbing  causes  that  produced  delay,  but  no  waste  or 
theft  of  time  by  procrastination  or  otherwise,  we  can 
scarcely  conjecture  what,  under  auspicious  circumstan 
ces  and  comparative  longevity,  might  not  have  been  her 
literary  position  and  pre-eminence  in  a  world  where  she 
left  no  superior  in  her  department.  She  had  planned 

*  Twilight  (as  Mrs.  Boies  informed  me)  was,  as  had  been  the  silent 
watches  of  the  night,  Lura's  favorite  time  for  poetic  composition,  which 
she  tried  to  avoid  on  sabbaths  ;  but  rhyme  would  obtrude  upon  her 
meditations,  and  therefore  she  endeavored  to  entertain,  although  as 
an  unbidden  guest,  some  sacred  subject  when  "  the  numbers  came," 
and  would  not  be  kept  out  by  other  thoughts. 

t  Ante,  page  135..  \Ante,  page  40. 


MEMOIR. 


an  historical  novel  and  heroic  poem,  both  of  which  re 
lated  to  the  American  revolution,  and  must  have  been 
successful ;  because  Miss  Boies  was  pre-eminently  en 
dowed  with  all  the  delicate  sensitiveness  of  genius,  di 
vested  of  its  eccentric  fastidiousness  by  which  it  is  too 
often  contradistinguished  from  mere  talent.  She  also 
possessed  the  last  in  an  extraordinary  degree. 

To  conclude,  however,  with  the  more  important  or 
greater  morals — from  the  consideration  of  which  I  have 
inadvertently  digressed—it  is  certain  that  Miss  Boies 
was  scrupulously  conscientious  on  all  subjects  within 
the  discriminating  scope  of  vice  and  virtue  ;  as  indeed 
all  conscientious  persons  must,  according  to  their 
knowledge,  necessarily  be  ;  nevertheless  of  a  deceptive 
and  demoralizing  theory  that,  in  consequence  of  human 
infirmity  and  eccentricity,  good  and  evil  intention  may 
be  strangely,  and  even  discordantly  combined,  or  rather 
associated,  in  the  same  person,  but  independently  and 
differently  applied  to  both  opinion  and  practice :  which, 
being  interpreted,  is  a  concession  that  such  a  person  is 
destitute  of  conscience,  or  moral  sense,  and  is  content 
with  some  undefinable  substitute  that  can  neither  over 
come  selfishness  nor  resist  temptation  ;  but  may,  when 
untempted,  be  by  casual  lookers-on  mistaken  for  con 
science;  and  yet  is  in  every  case  prone  to  sin  as  are 
sparks  to  fly  upward,  or  rather  cinders  to  fall  down 
ward.  On  the  contrary,  Miss  Boies  was  a  consistent 
detester  of  all  tyranny,  though  legalized  ;  and  a  com 
passionate  rebuker  of  every  immorality,  whether  con- 
dernned  by  criminal  codes,  or  fostered  by  license  on 


M  E  M  0  I R. 


false  pretense  of  regulating  governmental  institutions. 
Religion  with  her  was  not  merely  profession,  but  con 
stant  practice,  as  surety  and  solace  ;  a  guide  and  safe 
guard,  which  neither  led  to  bewilder,  nor  sought 
to  betray,  nor  dazzled  to  blind,  as  if  with  a  bra 
zen  shield,  glowing  in  red-hot  glare,  from  some  seven- 
times'  heated  furnaces  of  bigotry,  for  blasting  El  Zo- 
goybi-eyeballs.  Instead  of  such  darkness,  or  even 
doubt  and  blindness,  Miss  Boies,  recognizing  no  "false 
science,"  derived  consolation  from  an  Evangelist's  prom 
ised  Comforter,  "even  the  spirit  of  truth:"  whereby 
her  zeal  was  according  to  knowledge,  abiding  with  faith, 
hope  and  charity.  Irrespective,  however,  of  that  great 
est  Christian  gift,  or  grace,  her  native  goodness  of  heart 
would  have  precluded  all  uncharitableness.  On  ethi 
cal  principles  Miss  Boies  denounced,  decidedly  and  in 
dignantly  yet  mildly,  every  tendency  to  intolerance. 

But  I  will  forbear,  because  unintentionally  en 
croaching  upon  the  sacred  precincts  of  Prof.  King's 
funeral  sermon,  with  which,  or  at  least  a  promised 
sketch  of  it,  our  readers  shall  be  gratified,  and,  must 
I  not  add,  edified.  I  may,  however,  without  intrusion, 
refer  to  a  diary,  which  Mrs.  Boies  regards  as  an  accu 
rate  account  of  her  daughter's  religious  experience,  em 
bracing  conviction  and  conversion.  Whether  Christians, 
generally,  will  assent  to  Mrs.  Boies'  construction,  I 
know  not ;  but  am  certain  of  her  departed  daughter's 
sincerity;  because  of  her  unblemished  truthfulness — 
her  daily  life  and  conversation  proving  that  she  had 
kept  herself  unspotted  from  the  world — and  especially 


MEMOIR. 


in  consideration  of  the  final  triumph  of  her  living  faith, 
at  "  the  decisive  hour"  of  her  signal  victory  over  death, 
and  the  grave. 

Such  transition  from  earth  and  time  to  the  spirit- 
home,  and  source  of  sacred  song,  is  so  pertinently  illus 
trated  by  allusion  to  a  voyage,  that  it  suggested,  at  a 
loindow,  mentioned  in  Mrs.  Fradenburgh's  biography 
of  her  sainted  sister,  some  metrical  lines,  which  have 
been,  by  a  publishing  editor,  entitled 

"THE  LIFE-BOAT." 

Seated  at  that  sun-lighted  window  pane, 
With  moral  courage,  dauntless  fortitude, 
And  chastened  earnestness  intensely  felt, 
The  Angel  of  this  household  thence  look'd  out 
Upon  the  "  dead-man's  point"  which  lay  below. 
Thither,  in  cataract-course,  the  stream  of  time, 
As  river  of  terrestrial  human  life, 
Swifter  than  peucil'd  poesy  portrays,* 
Plunges,  in  fury,  with  no  tidal  ebb, 
And  sweeps  around  the  trend  of  that  dread  point, 
Above  which,  warp'd  to  land  a  life-boat  lay, 
And  heavenward-pointing  Hope  was  in  its  bow ; 

*No  description  of  that  locality  will  be  needed  by  persons  ac 
quainted  with  the  north-eastward  view  from  the  residence,  in  Mo 
reau,  of  Mr.  Jerome  Boies.  That  river-scenery — especially,  as  it  was 
remembered,  before  a  canal  and  mill-dam  had  converted  cataracts 
into  ponds — suggested  the  above  allusions  on  recollecting  Cole's  alle 
gorical  picture,  a  triple  voyage  of  life.  The  writer  of  this  foot-note 
proposes  a  pictorial  imitation  ;  substituting  the  Hudson  river,  as  seen 
above  dead-man's  point,  and  a  life-boat  bearing  the  likeness  of  "our 
angel,"  or — which  is  the  same — of  the  authoress,  concerning  whom 
that  identity  was,  several  years  ago,  intimated  in  a  supplement  to  the 
history  of  Temperance,  compiled  by  Win.  Hay. 


MEMOIR. 


Beck'ning  our  household  angel  to  embark — 
While  at  her  side,  with  wings  prepar'd  for  flight, 
To  others  viewless,  but  by  her  perceiv'd, 
FAITH  urg'd  her  chosen  not  to  tarry  here : 
And  she,  save  for  the  love  of  earthly  friends, 
Was  nothing  loth  to  leave  this  world  of  woe, 
Its  vale  of  tears,  and  transient  joy,  behind. 

Faith  guides  her  charge,  choice  favorite  of  Heaven, 
Who  casts  one  lingering  look  on  parting  friends, 
And  kindred  in  the  flesh — yet  firmly  grasps  the  helm 
Of  that  life-boat  which  faith  shoves  off  from  shore. 

STEADY  ! — careen  not — 0,  thou  self-sustain'd, 
Swung  from  thy  mooring,  with  no  anchor  here, 
And  by  Time's  river-flood  alone  propell'd — 
Laden  with  more  than  Csesar's  fortunes, 
Or  Columbus'  search  for  other  worlds, 
The  meek  in  spirit  and  the  pure  of  heart, 
Redeem' d,  even  here,  as  the  perfected  just, 
Of  God-like  intellect  and  soul  sublime, 
The  very  image  of  Divinity. 

Beware  those  breakers,  shun  that  whirlpool-gulf, 
And  be  not  dash'd  upon  yon  rocky  reefs: 
Nor  let  that  counter-current  change  thy  course 
Into  capsizing  ruin,  foundering  wreck. 

Lo !  how  the  life-boat,  buoyant,  staunch  and  true, 
By  prudence  trimm'd,  with  virtue  ballasted, 
Floats  lightly,  'bove  perdition,  on  the  surge. 

She 's  safe  !  Oh !  hdw  triumphantly  she  pass'd 
The  point  of  death,  and  settled  like  some  swan, 
With  gently  folded  wings,  in  th'  outer  bay, 
Through  which  is  entrance — seraphs'  pilotage — 
To  Heaven's  sure  haven  of  eternal  rest. 
Environ'd  by  "  the  everlasting  hills.'1 


MEMOIR. 


Though  from  such  voyage  there  is  no  return, 
Ere  our  own  angel  was  its  passenger, 
She  prophesied  her  holiest  destiny, 
Hymn'd  by  herself,  in  ever-during  verse, 

"  GONE  UP  HIGHER."* 
********* 

"  The  soul — the  deathless — the  immortal  part, 
That  gave  such  beauty  to  its  earthly  home, 
Lives  with  its  God,  and  bathes  its  tireless  wing 
In  the  glad  sunshine  of  eternal  love ! 
With  angels,  now,  he  bows  before  the  throne , 
The  gushing  voice,  tuneless  and  hushed  to  us, 
Blends  with  the  sweetness  of  the  seraph's  song, 
And  swells  the  chorus  of  the  anthem  high, 
Chanted,  in  rapture,  by  the  blood-washed  throng. 
No  night  is  there,  nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  stars; 
But  God's  own  glory  is  the  light  thereof; 

And  He,  Himself,  shall  wipe  all  tears  away  !"f 

W.  H. 

*Ante,  page  97. 

f  Miss  Boies'  admirable  life,  and  resignation  at  death,  reminded  me 
of  Lord  Bacon's  distinction  (certainly  not  without  difference,)  be 
tween  the  Old  Testament  blessing  and  that  of  the  New  •  the  first 
having  been  prosperity,  but  the  latter  being  adversity. 


BIOGRAPHY 


LIJRA 


BOIES. 


BT  HER  SISTER, 

MRS.  HELEN  M.  FRADENBURGH. 


V 


MY  earliest  recollections  of  sister  Lura  are  of  a  gentle, 
quiet,  thoughtful  child,  but  by  no  means  an  inactive 
one ;  for  she  was  as  much  interested  in  the  active, 
healthy  sports  of  childhood  as  other  children. 

We  resided  but  a  short  distance  from  the  school 
house,  and  when  but  three  years'  old  she  commenced 
attending  school ;  although  she  was  not  numbered  with 
the  rest  of  the  scholars.  Our  parents  did  not  like  to 
have  her  go  to  school  so  young ;  but  she  loved  it  so 
well,  and  as  she  made  the  teacher  no  trouble,  she  was 
allowed  to  go.  I  believe  she  learned  to  read  well  that 
summer,  and  on  the  summer  following  she  attended 
school  regularly.  She  could  not  attend  school  very 
steadily  during  childhood,  on  account  of  frequent  in 
terruptions  from  illness  ;  her  constitution  being  nat 
urally  very  slight.  She  learned  very  easily,  and  was 
called  an  excellent  scholar  when  a  child.  Her  temper 
was  mild  in  the  extreme,  scarcely  ever  needing  even  re- 

1221] 
, : _____ ^  ;  ^  J 


BIOGRAPHY. 


proof,  and  she  was  also  very  affectionate.  Although 
but  six  years  her  senior,  her  nature  was  so  clinging  and 
dove-like,  that  I  felt  more  of  maternal  than  sisterly 
feeling  toward  her  ;  acting  as  guardian  in  our  extended 
rambles  through  fields  and  forest. 

Oh,  those  happy,  golden  days  of  childhood  !  I  al 
most  feel  as  if  I  would  recall  them,  that  we  might 
again  walk  together ;  but  she  is  roaming  the  elysian 
fields  of  Heaven,  and  we  are  left  to  bide  our  time,  pa 
tiently  and  prayerfully,  walking  by  faith  rather  than 
sight,  until  we  meet  her  there. 

As  a  child  she  was  remarkably  conscientious,  seeking 
early  to  give  her  heart  to  God,  and  praying  every  day, 
after  she  became  old  enough  to  lisp  her  simple  prayer. 
This  rule  she  invariably  practiced,  amid  any  and  every 
circumstance,  until  she  went  home  to  Heaven.  The 
winter  of  her  seventh  year  she  read  the  New  Testa 
ment,  and  made  considerable  progress  in  the  Old  Tes 
tament.  There  was  an  extensive  revival  of  religion  in 
all  the  churches  at  Glens  Falls  that  winter,  and  one 
sabbath  evening  our  father  attended  meeting  at  the 
Baptist  church.  He  remarked,  on  the  following  day, 
that  the  preacher  (a  stranger  in  the  place)  had  said  the 
word  sprinkle  could  not  be  found  in  the  bible  ;  where 
upon  little  Lura,  who  was  attentively  listening,  replied, 
"  The  word  sprinkle  is  in  the  bible,  for  in  the  book  of 
Numbers  they  were  told  to  sprinkle  with  water."  On 
the  following  winter  I  was  attending  school  away  from 
home,  and  after  a  recitation  in  Wayland's  Moral  Sci 
ence,  our  preceptress,  according  to  her  usual  practice, 


BIOGRAPHY. 


was  conversing  with  the  class — the  subject  being  the 
early  conversion  of  children.  One  young  lady,  of  the 
Universalist  persuasion,  contended  that  there  was  no 
real  conversion  of  children.  I  mentioned  sister  Lura 
as  an  example  of  what  I  believed  a  Christian  child  ;  as 
all  her  words  and  actions  were  evidently  governed  by 
love  and  fear  of  her  Saviour. 

I  also  spoke  of  her  reading  the  New  Testament 
through,  and  related  the  foregoing  incident,  as  proof 
that  she  understood  and  remembered  what  she  read. 
All  in  the  class  thought  it  an  uncommon  instance  ; 
and  the  young  lady  remarked,  "  Why,  she  must  be  an 
angel !" 

When  but  ten  years  of  age,  she  had  an  almost  mor 
bid  state  of  feeling  with  regard  to  telling  falsehoods. 
She  would  imagine  that  she  had  told  something  differ 
ent  from  what  it  really  was,  and  after  relating  the  cir 
cumstance  to  our  mother,  (who  is  as  conscientious  an 
obserrtfr  of  the  truth  as  the  strictest  person  can  be,) 
and  being  assured  that  she  had  not  told  an  untruth — 
that  she  only  imagined  it — she  would  lie  awake  at 
night  and  cry  for  some  time. 

She  was  also  very  particular  in  not  giving  a  wrong 
impression  in  relating  any  thing,  and  if  she  thought  she 
was  understood  differently  from  what  she  intended,  she 
would  not  rest  until  it  was  corrected,  hoAvever  unim 
portant  the  matter.  Not  long  before  her  death,  in 
conversation,  she  thought  after  the  person  or  friend  had 
left,  that  they  had  mistaken  her  meaning,  and  spoke 
to  Ma  about  it,  saying  that  she  feared  she  had  done 


BIOGRAPHY. 


wrong.  As  the  subject  was  of  no  account,  and  she  had 
not  intended  to  give  a  wrong  impression,  Ma  assured 
her  that  she  was  not  responsible.  I  presume  this  was 
owing  in  a  measure  to  her  highly  imaginative  tempera 
ment  ;  and  as  she  was  making  it  the  one  great  aim  of 
her  life  to  prepare  for  that  haven  of  rest  to  which  she 
has  gone,  both  combined  to  render  her  more  truthful 
than  the  most  of  persons,  for  she  was  :jiore  watchful 
than  a  merely  superficial  person  would  be.  We  used  to 
think  that  she  would  become  a  writer ;  for  when  but  a 
child  of  but  three  or  four  years,  she  would  improvise 
long  stories  about  herself  and  the  little  children  with 
whom  she  had  played  ;  being  merely  the  fruits  of  her  1 
own  imagination,  and  related  for  our  benefit,  she  of  A 
course  did  not  think  that  we  would  believe  them  true.  | 
Every  scrap  of  paper,  white  or  brown,  that  she  would  II 
find,  would  be  written  over  with  the  thoughts  of  her  ] 
pure  mind,  both  in  verse  and  prose,  when  not  more 
than  nine  or' ten  years  old.  At  the  age  of  twelve  and 
fourteen  she  became  extremely  diffident,  and  although 
always  of  a  retiring  nature,  at  that  age  she  was  the 
most  so  of  any  person  I  ever  knew  ;  so  much  indeed, 
that  she  could  scarcely  be  prevailed  upon  to  enter  a 
room  where  there  were  strangers,  or  even  to  enter  a 
neighbor's  house  on  an  errand.  One  would  scarcely 
think  that  in  the  course  of  six  or  seven  years  she  could 
so  overcome  this  feeling  as  to  stand  in  the  presence  of 
hundreds  and  read,  or  rather  repeat,  long  poems,  and 
so  far  forget  the  presence  of  the  audience,  and  become 


BIOGRAPHY.  225  Gy 


so  absorbed  in  the  meaning  of  what  she  was  uttering, 
as  to  weep  when  she  left  the  stage,  as  she  often  did. 

The  summer  that  she  was  thirteen,  she  wrote  a 
sketch  entitled  the  "  Two  Maidens,"  the  scene  of  which 
was  laid  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  at  the  time  of 
the  revolution. 

I  earnestly  advised  her  to  send  it  to  the  Boston  "  Cul 
tivator,"  and  she  did  so.  It  was  published,  and  I  well 
remember  how  pleased  she  was.  Her  first  poem,  pub 
lished  when  she  was  fourteen,  was  "Lines  to  Baby 
Helen."  After  this,  she  occasionally  sent  a  piece  of 
poetry,  or  a  story,  which  was  invariably  puolished. 
She  also  received  the  paper  regularly,  and  her  name  was 
often  mentioned  by  other  writers.  Her  piece  entitled 
"  Dancing,"  was  the  only  piece  she  ever  wrote  of  a  con 
troversial  character.  When  the  "  Temperance  Helper" 
was  first  published  at  Ballston,  she  wrote  for  it. 

Several  of  the  poems  published  in  her  volume  were 
written  before  she  was  sixteen,  such  as  "  Our  Country," 
"The  Dream,"  &c.  "The  Bible,"  "The  Sabbath," 
"The  Divorced  Wife."  and  some  of  her  Temperance 
stanzas,  were  among  her  earlier  productions,  with  many 
others.  In  letters  written  me  when  she  was  fourteen, 
she  refers  to  reading  Kollin's  History,  Goldsmith,  and 
Sturm's  Keflections,  which  was  always  a  favorite. 

Her  love  of  the  scenery  surrounding  her  home  was 
intense,  as  may  be  inferred  from  the  following  extract 
from  a  letter,  written  me  at  that  time  ;  as  I  was  then 
residing  on  the  borders  of  Lake  Champlain,  at  Essex  : 
"  The  river  looks  beautiful  now,  and  how  I  wish  you 


15 


BIOGRAPHY. 


were  here  to  admire  it.  Not  a  ripple  disturbs  its  glassy 
surface,  while,  mirrored  in  its  waters,  appear  the  trees 
that  fringe  its  banks,  with  their  varied  foliage  of  gold 
and  brilliant  red.  Although  Lake  Champlain  surpasses 
it  in  size,  I  do  not  believe  it  does  in  beauty ;  and  if  I 
could,  I  would  not  exchange  the  scene  that  meets  my 
view  for  all  the  sublime  scenery  the  world  contains. 
How  thankful  we  should  be  that,  though  not  sur 
rounded  with  luxury,  we  can  gaze  on  the  beauties  of 
nature,  and  from  thence  our  thoughts  are  directed  to 
the  Source  of  all  comfort ;  for,  as  Sturm  says,  '  We 
are  led  through  Nature  up  to  Nature's  God/  ' 

She  generally  attended  school,  both  summer  and 
winter,  and  devoted  much  time  to  reading  and  writing, 
and  was  also  much  amid  the  scenes  of  nature  she 
loved  so  well.  Her  life  flowed  on  like  a  pleasant  river 
through  the  green  sunny  meadows  and  shady  dells,  un 
til  it  reached  the  broad  ocean  of  eternity. 

Her  voice,  heard  in  the  soft,  low,  modulated  tones  of 
conversation,  or  ringing  with  the  joyous  music  of  an 
overflowing  heart,  made  melody  in  the  hearts  of  her 
parents  and  sisters.  Well  might  she  describe  the  sun 
ny  hues  of  child-life  ;  for  she  was  only  portraying  her 
own  happy,  loving  childhood,  sheltered  by  the  love  of 
kind  parents,  passed  amid  the  haunts  of  nature,  with 
book  and  pen,  and  more  than  all,  with  a  wellspring  of 
happiness  in  her  heart  emanating  from  the  Divine  hand. 

She  attended  the  district  school  only  one  winter  af 
ter  she  was  fifteen  ;  but  pursued  her  studies  at  home. 
The  summer  that  she  was  eighteen  she  taught  the 


BIOGRAPHY.  227 


school  in  the  district  where  she  lived — her  only  expe 
rience  in  teaching.  She  liked  it,  but  the  anxiety  of 
mind  connected  with  it  injured  her  health.  Composing 
always  affected  her,  so  that  she  could  sleep  but  very 
little ;  often  lying  awake  until  four  or  five  o'clock  in 
the  morning. 

Many  of  her  short  pieces  were  composed  under  the 
inspiration  of  the  moment.  Her  "  Spirit  of  Song"  was 
composed  one  summer's  eve  at  sunset,  while  musing  by 
the  window;  and  "We  must  fight  the  Battle  over," 
was  composed  and  written  in  a  short  half  hour  of  the 
day  when  the  news  was  received  that  the  Maine  Law 
was  defeated.  The  temperance  cause  lay  very  near  her 
heart,  and  she  loved  to  help  it,  through  her  personal 
^  influence  and  her  pen. 

Through  all  these  years  religion  was  the  chief  subject 
of  her  thoughts  and  desires.  She  always  had  such  an 
humble  estimate  of  herself,  that  she  had  a  great  many 
doubts  and  fears  that  she  was  not  accepted  by  Christ. 
But  she  gave  abundant  evidence  of  the  fruits  of  the 
Spirit,  in  her  meekness,  gentleness,  patience  and  char 
ity.  Her  love  of  her  fellow  beings  was  such  that  she 
would  not  censure  them,  unless  thoroughly  convinced 
that  they  were  wrong — throwing  the  mantle  of  charity 
over  their  faults  ;  and  she  was  very  careful  never  to  say 
or  do  any  thing  to  injure  another's  feelings — which  ren 
dered  her  beloved  by  all  who  knew  her. 

Early  in  the  autumn  of  1854  she  attended  camp- 
meeting,  and  suffered  much  distress  of  mind  concerning   A 
her  soul's  salvation.     She  prayed  earnestly  for  herself 


BIOGRAPHY. 


at  a  prayer  meeting  in  a  tent,  and  those  present  thought 
that  she  was  already  a  child  of  God  ;  but  her  faith  was 
not  strong  enough.  One  lady,  a  sister  in  the  church, 
remarked  to  me,  "  Lura  will  never  be  contented  with 
being  a  halfway  Christian,  as  many  are,  but  she  is  seek 
ing  sanctification,  and  she  will  be  a  thorough  Christian." 
I  doubt  not  but  that  she  was  converted  when  quite 
young,  as  soon  as  she  reached  the  age  of  responsibility  ; 
and  that  all  her  after  struggles  were,  in  reality,  resisting 
temptation,  and  fighting  the  good  fight  of  faith  ;  though 
doubtless  at  times  the  tempter  darkened  her  mind,  and 
prevented  her  having  that  faith  which  brings  peace  and 
the  witness  of  the  Spirit.  I  do  not  think  she  commit 
ted  a  willful  sin,  or  an  act  that  she  knew  was  wrong,  for  <. 
many  years.  She  was  very  firm  in  the  right — had  a  l- 
great  deal  of  moral  courage — and,  in  her  intercourse 
with  others,  she  never  lightly  passed  by  any  thing  that 
she  thought  was  sinful,  however  slight. 

Her  reading  was  very  extensive,  mostly  poetry,  biog 
raphy,  and  books  of  a  reflective  cast.  History  she  did 
not  like  ;  although  she  read  and  studied  it,  until  the 
latter  years  of  her  life,  when  she  read  some  large  his 
torical  works.  In  reading  works  of  fiction,  she  selected 
those  of  the  highest  order,  mentally  and  morally  ;  for 
she  thought  it  wrong  to  read  any  thing  that  did  not 
improve  the  heart  and  mind. 

Her  bible  was  her  daily  study,  and  the  psalms  espe 
cially  she  loved  to  read  at  family  prayer.     We  find 
many  passages  marked  in  her  bible^and  the  23d  Psalm  ^ 
she  marked,  and  wrote  on  the  margin,  "  Sweet  words 


BIOGRAPHY. 


of  peace,  breathing  consolation  I"  a  few  weeks  before 
her  death.  She  often  spoke  of  the  sublimity  of  the 
history  of  the  creation  in  Genesis,  and  of  the  Psalms. 

The  first  school  that  she  ever  attended,  excepting  the 
district  school,  was  at  Fort  Edward  Institute,  the  first 
term  of  its  commencement,  when  she  was  nineteen 
years  of  age  ;  not  entering  a  regular  course  of  study 
then,  as  it  was  uncertain  how  long  she  might  attend. 
Her  proficiency  was  very  rapid,  and  she  took  at  once 
the  highest  grade  of  scholarship  in  her  studies. 

The  only  ornamental  branch  she  pursued  was  mono- 
chromatics  ;  and,  although  she  had  never  taken  a  les 
son  in  drawing,  her  second  picture,  one  of  Cole's  series 
of  the  Voyage  of  Life,  "Old  Age,"  was  pronounced  per 
fect  ;  her  teacher,  the  preceptress,  saying  that  it  was 
as  perfect  as  she  could  have  taken  herself.  At  the 
close  of  the  term  she  received  the  highest  prize  in  com 
position  for  the  poem,  "  Little  Children,"  which  was 
written  before  entering  the  school. 

She  entered  the  classical  course  the  second  term,  and 
graduated  the  spring  of  1857  ;  having  attended  only 
five  terms. 

When  the  Esthetic  Society,  consisting  only  of  la 
dies  intending  to  graduate,  was  formed,  she  became  a 
member ;  and  the  poems  she  read  at  their  publics,  and 
contributed  to  their  weekly  paper,  were  prized  very 
highly.  In  one  instance,  the  paper  which  she  edited 
was  read  at  their  public,  containing  ten  pieces  of  her 
own  ;  although  she  earnestly  desired  that  they  would 


BIOGRAPHY. 


not  have  a  public  that  term,  on  account  of  being  re 
quired  to  write  so  much,  in  addition  to  her  studies. 

Latin  was  her  favorite  study  ;  and  her  teachers  and 
others  have  said  that  'she  gave  the  most  elegant  and 
perfect  translation  of  any  one  they  ever  knew.  The 
first  prize  for  composition  was  awarded  her  every  term 
of  her  attendance,  excepting  the  last,  when,  as  a  gradu- 
atej  she  read  the  valedictory,  "Earth's Triumph  Hours ;" 
and  she  also  received  the  highest  mark,  in  her  various 
classes,  while  at  Fort  Edward  Institute.  Her  devotion 
to  her  studies  was  remarked  by  both  teachers  and  stu 
dents  ;  rising  early,  and  improving  every  leisure  mo 
ment.  It  Was  her  practice  to  rise  at  four  in  the  morn 
ing  and  pursue  her  studies  until  half  past  ten  at  night, 
the  last  term  of  her  attendance  ;  thus  confining  herself  f 
to  four  and  five  hours  sleep.  This,  of  course,  was  inju 
rious  to  her  health,  and  she  was  advised  by  her  teach 
ers  not  to  devote  herself  so  assiduously  to  her  studies, 
but  be  content  with  recitations  not  quite  so  perfect  ; 
but  this  she  could  not  do.  She  could  not  feel  at  ease 
unless  she  thorougly  and  perfectly  understood  the  stud 
ies  she  pursued  ;  and  writing  occupied  so  much  of  her 
time,  that  she  was  obliged  to  devote  the  remainder  to 
her  lessons,  or  they  would  be  neglected. 

After  entering  the  last  term,  and  finding  that  her  la 
bors  would  be  so  arduous,  our  parents,  with  myself, 
earnestly  advised  her  to  attend  another  term  before 
graduating.  She  therefore  consulted  Professor  King, 
who  (although  he  did  not  wish  her  to  study  too  hard) 
thought  that  it  might  be  uncertain  about  his  remain-  ** 


— 

BIOGRAPHY. 


ing  there  another  term,  and  advised  her  to  try  and  fin 
ish  that  term,  as  he  wished  her  to  graduate  while  he 
remained  at  the  Institute.  Some  branches,  in  the 
higher  walks  of  literature,  that  were  optional  in  the 
course,  she  only  read,  and  in  one  or  two  instances  she 
passed  a  thorough  examination  without  having  time  to 
read  the  author.  Her  mind  was  eminently  original, 
and  she  could  easily  arrive  at  correct  conclusions,  where 
a  less  independent  or  creative  mind  would  depend  on 
what  was  read  or  studied. 

After  graduating  with  the  highest  honors,  she  return 
ed  home,  her  health  being  quite  impaired,  although  she 
had  no  symptoms  of  the  disease  with  which  she  died  ; 
but  she  gradually  became  better,  and  devoted  her  time 
to  writing  and  copying  for  publication,  with  light  ex 
ercise  around  the  house,  and  walking  in  the  open  air. 

While  writing  "Jane  McCrea,"  she  was  not  well,  not 
being  able  to  sleep  much.  When  writing  long  poems, 
much  of  the  time  she  would  not  feel  the  inspiration  of 
writing ;  therefore  it  was  very  difficult,  and  affected 
her  health.  Sometimes  she  would  spend  a  whole  day 
without  writing  more  than  one  or  two  lines,  and  at 
others,  she  would  compose  fifty  or  more  with  but  little 
apparent  effort ;  although  there  was  always  a  reaction, 
and  she  would  not  feel  as  well  as  when  not  writing.  I 
think  she  was  never  well  after  composing  the  poem 
written  for  the  semi-centennial  celebration  at  Moreau  ; 

as  she  was  verv  anxious  concerning  it.     She  always 

fl 
thought  but  little  of  her  poems  :  her  mark  of  perfec-  J^ 

tion  was  set  very  high,  and  she  rarely  reached  it.     Last  2j£ 


BIOGRAPHY. 


winter  she  referred  to  "Jane  McCrea,"  and  remarked  that 
she  had  not  done  justice  to  the  subject,  and  ought  not 
to  have  written  it.  Her  religious  enjoyments,  after 
uniting  with  the  Methodist  church  at  Fort  Edward, 
which  she  did  soon  after  commencing  to  attend  school 
there,  were  bright  and  serene,  and  she  always  was  faith 
ful  in  her  attendance  on  the  class  and  prayer  meetings  ; 
her  voice  always  proclaiming  her  love  of  the  Saviour. 

The  little  that  we  have  of  her  private  religious  jour 
nal — she  having  destroyed  the  most  of  it — gives  abun 
dant  evidence  of  her  devotional  frame  of  mind.  She 
attended  the  semi-centennial  celebration  of  the  presi 
dency  of  Dr.  Nott,  of  Union  College,  with  Mr.  Fraden- 
burgh  and  myself,  in  July,  1858,  and  was  much  pleased, 
as  she  had  never  been  at  Union  College  before.  Al 
though  she  was  not  very  well  during  the  summer  of 
1858,  yet  there  did  not  appear  to  be  any  thing  seri 
ously  the  matter,  until  late  in  the  autumn,  when 
she  commenced  vomiting  at  intervals.  A  physician 
was  consulted,  who  pronounced  it  dyspepsia,  and  gave 
her  medicine  that  relieved  her  in  a  measure.  She  vis 
ited  Saratoga  Springs  the  latter  part  of  December,  and 
although  not  very  well,  she  was  some  better  than  she 
had  been,  and  continued  about  the  same  until  the  mid 
dle  of  January,  when  she  commenced  daily  vomiting 
again,  and  nothing  could  be  done  to  relieve  it.  She 
rode  out  a  great  deal,  as  she  felt  much  better  after 
riding,  if  she  did  not  ride  far  enough  to  fatigue  her 
much. 

She  visited  me  the  8th  of  March,  in  order  to  see  Dr.  I 

Q 


BIOGRAPHY. 


Reynolds,  who  had  prescribed  for  her  during  the  win 
ter.  He  saw  her  at  our  residence  the  1 1  th,  and  thought, 
as  before,  that  her  disease  was  a  complicated  and  obsti 
nate  case  of  dyspepsia  ;  left  a  prescription  that  he 
thought  would  help  her,  and  she  returned  home  on  the 
same  afternoon,  much  encouraged. 

Sister  Elizabeth  was  with  us,  and  never  saw  Lura 
again.  Pa  came  out  in  two  weeks,  March  26th,  and 
informed  us  that  she  had  been  failing,  and  was  then 
very  weak  indeed,  mostly  confined  to  her  bed.  The  fol 
lowing  week  Dr.  Ferguson,  of  Glens  Falls,  saw  her,  and 
thought,  with  Dr.  R.,  that  dyspepsia  was  the  cause  of 
her  illness.  Medicine  did  not  relieve  her  in  the  least, 
and  she  continued  growing  worse.  We  visited  her  on 
the  6th  of  April,  and  were  shocked  to  find  her  so  ill, 
and  so  emaciated.  When  I  entered  her  room,  and 
went  to  her,  she  clasped  her  arms  around  my  neck  and 
drew  me  to  her  breast,  as  if  she  had  feared  she  never 
would  see  me  again.  Oh,  those  precious  moments, 
when  we  could  see  her  and  converse  with  her,  gone, 
never  to  return  ;  when  we  saw  her  beaming  smile,  and 
heard  her  in  cheerful,  though  feeble,  tones  saying  she 
would  soon  be  well,  and  could  come  and  see  our  lonely 
invalid  sister  !  We  feared  very  much  that  her  disease 
was  of  a  more  serious  nature  than  dyspepsia ;  yet  we 
had  strong  hopes  that  it  was  not,  and  if  not,  she 
thought  with  us,  that  something  would  be  done  to 
help  her ;  as  dyspepsia  is  not  considered  a  dangerous 
disease,  though  an  unpleasant  and  distressing  one.  The 
Saturday  following  our  visit,  Dr.  Reynolds  visited  her 


BIOGRAPHY. 


for  the  first.  He  strongly  feared  that  there  was  a 
schirrous  state  of  the  stomach,  as  the  remedies  pre 
scribed  had  not  relieved  her,  and  if  this  was  the  case 
there  was  no  help  for  her ;  neither  could  there  have 
been,  even  if  known  in  the  commencement  of  her  ill 
ness.  We  visited  her  again  on  Monday,  and  found  her 
much  weaker  than  before,  though  very  cheerful ;  too 
weak  to  converse  much. 

We  could  talk  but  little  to  her  on  subjects  connected 
with  her  departure  hence,  as  it  would  cause  her  to 
vomit. 

She  felt  that  she  had  not  been  as  faithful  to  God  as 
she  might  have  been,  and  she  remarked,  "  Oh,  if  I  ever 

get  well  again,  I  will  serve  the  Lord  better  than  I  ever  A 

. 
have  !"  a  very  natural  feeling,  when  we  view  the  bound-  % 

less  love  and  mercy  of  the  Saviour,  and  our  own  un wor 
thiness.  Although  she  had  some  doubts  and  fears  of 
her  future  happiness,  caused  doubtless  by  her  disease, 
they  were  all  dispelled  before  she  died,  and  the  smile 
of  God  shone  brightly  around  her,  giving  her  the  peace 
that  passeth  understanding  ;  and  she  felt  that  she  could 
trust  her  all  in  the  hands  of  the  Lor,d.  Dr.  Reynolds, 
and  Dr.  Norton,  of  Fort  Edward,  met  there  on  Tues 
day,  and  found  she  had  felt  a  tumor  in  her  stomach, 
from  the  outside,  on  Sunday  ;  and  this  confirmed  Dr. 
R.'s  opinion  that  it  was  a  cancer  in  the  stomach  ;  there 
fore  every  vestige  of  hope  was  removed.  The  tumor 
was  so  situated  as  to  prevent  her  receiving  scarcely  any 
nourishment  from  her  food,  and  she  was  literally  starv 
ing  ;  although  not  suffering  from  the  pangs  of  hunger.  5j 


BIOGKAPHY. 


I  went  again  to  see  her  on  Wednesday,  intending  to 
remain  with  her.  When  I  entered  the  room  she  could 
scarcely  turn  her  eyes  toward  me  ;  having  vomited  at 
short  intervals  during  the  day,  and  being  very  much 
exhausted.  Pa  asked  her  if  she  wished  to  have  Eliza 
beth  brought  home  ;  and  she  asked  us  what  we  thought 
of  it.  We  told  her  to  say  exactly  as  she  wished,  for  she 
could  come  home  if  she  desired  to  see  her.  After  re 
flecting  a  few  minutes,  she  replied,  "  Perhaps  it  would 
be  best  to  wait,  and  see  how  I  am  ;  for  I  think  it 
would  injure  us  both  to  meet  now."  Once,  after  a  se 
vere  turn  of  vomiting,  she  remarked,  "  With  God  all 
things  are  possible ;  and  if  it  is  His  will  to  restore  me  to 
health,  He  is  able  to  do  it."  Late  in  the  afternoon  she 
asked  ma  what  the  doctor  had  said  of  her,  that  day.  Ma 
told  her  that  he  had  given  but  little  hope.  Lura  seemed 
a  little  affected,  although  perfectly  resigned  ;  her  coun 
tenance  changing  to  a  look  of  sadness,  at  the  thought 
of  parting  with  those  she  loved.  Thursday  morning 
she  was  very  weak  indeed  ;  but  appeared  quite  revived 
when  Professor  King  came  in  to  see  her,  He  talked 
very  consolingly  to  her  ;  told  her  that  she  had  accom 
plished  more  in  her  brief  life  than  many  who  lived  to 
an  old  age  ;  and  that  now  God  was  calling  her  home. 
She  said  that  she  was  willing  to  die,  if  it  was  God's 
will ;  although  life  had  its  charms,  the  society  of 
friends,  &c. ;  but  that  she  did  not  feel  as  bright  an  ev 
idence  of  acceptance  by  God  as  she  wished.  He  told 
her  to  "  trust  implicitly  in  Jesus,  as  fully  as  in  her 
mother's  arms  :  that  was  all  she  needed."  She  then 


BIOGRAPHY. 


became  so  exhausted  that  he  left  the  room.  During 
the  afternoon  she  appeared  better  than  on  the  previous 
day  ;  as  she  did  not  vomit  much.  Her  distress,  when 
vomiting,  was  very  great,  as  she  was  so  weak  that  she 
could  not  raise  her  head  from  the  pillow,  scarcely  hav 
ing  strength  to  vomit  ;  but  she  was  extremely  patient, 
not  once  intimating,  by  word  or  action,  that  she  wish 
ed  it  otherwise.  She  also  had  sinking  turns,  after 
vomiting,  when  it  required  constant  attention  to  revive 
her.  Those  that  attended  her  said  they  had  never  seen 
a  person  in  so  much  distress ;  and  her  patience  and  gen 
tleness  was  remarked  by  all  that  saw  her.  Her  coun 
tenance,  when  at  rest,  was  as  serene  as  a  babe's.  When  | 

.  •  11 

asked  if  she  loved  Jesus,  she  invariably  replied  "  yes  ;"  Ji 

and  once  during  the  day  she  said,  "  I  believe  I  will  let  | 
it  all  rest  with  the  Lord,  and  not  worry  any  more."  At 
the  dawn  of  day,  on  Friday  morning,  her  last  on  earth, 
as  I  was  sitting  by  her  bedside,  a  robin  caroled  his 
morning  song  near  the  window.  After  it  had  ceased, 
for  some  minutes,  she  exclaimed,  "  How  sweet  that  bird 
sings!"  The  melody  must  have  lingered  in  her  ears. 
She  often  spoke,  during  her  illness,  of  the  beautiful 
spring  time,  as  she  looked  out  of  the  window  from  her 
bed  ;  and  on  the  Sunday  previous  to  her  death  she 
said,  "  I  shall  soon  be  out  with  the  birds." 

Sweet  girl !  she  was  indeed  out  with  them  soon,  but 
it  was  "  low  in  the  ground"  nnd  they  were  hymning  a 
requiem  over  her  resting  place.  She  longed  to  be  out 
of  doors  in  the  fresh  air,  and  pa  carried  her  out  in  his 
arms  only  a  week  before  she  died.  A  beautiful  bou- 


— — - 

BIOGRAPHY.  237 

quet  of  flowers  was  brought  her  by  a  friend,  on  Thurs 
day,  and  as  they  were  placed  by  her  bedside,  she  would 
inhale  their  fragrance,  again  and  again  exclaiming, 
"  How  sweet  they  are  !" 

On  Friday  morning  I  said  to  her,  "  You  would 
hardly  wish  to  recover  now,  to  pass  through  this  again, 
would  you  Lura  ?"  She  replied  "  no,"  emphatically. 
We  thought  she  would  not  live  through  another  night, 
and  we  could  not  wish  her  sufferings  to  be  prolonged  ; 
although  those  last  moments  were  so  precious.  A 
sweet  peace  diffused  itself  over  her  countenance,  and 
when  her  eyes  were  closed,  she  seemed  to  be  silently 
lifting  her  heart  in  prayer.  Although  she  did  not 
vomit  as  much  as  usual  through  the  day,  when  she  did, 
or  was  turned  in  bed,  she  became  so  exhausted  that  it  | 
was  with  the  utmost  exertion  that  she  was  revived. 
Professor  King  visited  her  again  in  the  morning,  and 
read  some  passages  in  the  bible  to  her,  and  prayed  with 
her.  She  requested  him  to  preach  her  funeral  sermon, 
as  he  rose  to  leave,  and  he  turned  to  the  door  with  the 
tears  flowing  down  his  cheeks.  Once  she  said  to  me, 
"  There  is  a  great  deal  I  wish  to  say  to  you  ;  but  I  am 
so  weak  I  cannot  talk."  I  replied,  that  if  it  was  con 
cerning  herself,  perhaps  strength  would  be  given  her  to 
say  what  she  desired;  but  if  it  related  to  us,  although 
we  would  love  to  hear  it,  it  would  make  no  difference. 
•  She  said  but  little  through  the  day  ;  but  all  that 
she  did  say  showed  plainly  that  she  felt  that  she  was 
going  home  to  Heaven. 

I  think  that  she  said  more  to  you  in  those  brief 


238  BIOGRAPHY. 


moments  that  you  saw  her,  than  during  the  three 
days  preceding  her  departure.  She  said,  shortly  after, 
"  Judge  Hay  has  been  one  of  my  best  friends."  Again 
she  said,  "  I  am  afraid  I  have  been  too  ambitious  con 
cerning  my  writings."  I  assured  her  that  it  was  right 
to  have  a  laudable  ambition  in  any  thing  that  would 
do  good  ;  that  it  would  not  succeed  without  this  ;  and 
that  she  had  always  had  a  very  humble  estimate  of  her 
writings  ;  it  being  right  for  her  to  make  the  best  use 
of  the  talents  God  had  given  her. 

At  6  o'clock,  after  being  moved,  a  great  change  pass 
ed   over  her  countenance  ;  the  hue  of  death  stealing   I 
around  her  mouth,  her  hands  and  feet  cramping,  and  it   I 
being  very  difficult  to  revive  her  again.     But  at  length  A 
she  became  more  easy,  and  as  pa  sat  on  one  side  of  her  |f 
bed,  and  I  on  the  other,  she  took  one  hand  of  each  in  II 
one  of  hers,  and  softly  said,  "  It  will  soon  cease  ;"  while 
her  countenance  beamed  with  heavenly  peace.     Again, 
while  pa  and  ma  sat  beside  her,  she  said,  "How  sweet 
it  is."     Later  in  the  evening,  while  holding  her  hand 
in  mine,  she  exclaimed,  "  We  will  soon  be  together." 
I  replied,  "  Yes,  Lura,  I  will  strive  to  live  a  Christian 
life,  that  we  may  spend  an  eternity  of  bliss  together." 
A  seraphic  smile  beamed  over  her  face  as  she  answered, 
"  yes."     I  talked  to  her  of  Heaven,  of  the  friends  she 
would  meet  there,  and  of  the  fleetness  of  time  ;  at  the 
most  it  would  not  be  long  before  we  should  meet  her, 
if  faithful :  to  all  of  which  she  serenely  assented.     She 
whispered  many  times,  "  We  shall  soon  be  together."  j\ 
About  9  o'clock,  after  being  turned  in  bed,  her  sinking  5T 


BIOGRAPHY. 


im 


turns  were  so  long  and  severe,  that  she  could  not  be 
revived  from  one  before  entering  another,  until  the  aw 
ful  change  passed  over  her  face  ;  and  we  knew  our  be 
loved  was  dying.  She  murmured,  "  Lib/'  thus  calling 
on  the  dear  sister  then  far  away,  who  had  been  her  al 
most  inseparable  companion  in  her  childish  sports,  and 
early  youth,  until  sickness  had  blighted  that  sister's 
young  life ;  and  although  they  could  not  go  out  into 
the  world  together,  their  hearts  were  bound  with  an 
affection  rarely  seen,  even  among  sisters;  each  heart 
being  the  repository  of  all  the  joys  and  griefs  of  the 
other.  Ma  then  asked  her  if  Jesus  was  with  her  ;  she 
answered  "  yes."  I  repeated — 

"  Jesus  can  make  a  dying  bed 
Feel  soft  as  downy  pillows  are  ;" 

and  she  bowed  her  head  in  the  affirmative.  She  then 
whispered,  "  Ma,"  the  last  word  she  uttered  ;  although 
she  moved  her  lips,  without  uttering  a  sound,  seeming 
anxious  to  say  something  more. 

I  soon  after  asked  her,  if  she  felt  that  she  would  soon 
enter  Heaven,  to  raise  her  hand  ;  she  did  so,  and  soon 
ceased  to  breathe,  without  a  struggle  or  a  groan,  at  a 
quarter  past  eleven  o'clock. 

O,  could  we  have  then  lifted  the  veil,  and  have  seen 
her  spirit  wafted  through  the  portals  of  eternity,  ac 
companied  by  the  holy  angels,  into  the  arms  of  our 
blessed  Saviour,  how  joyful  our  mourning  souls  would 
have  been  in  that  trying  hour ! 

But  we  could  only  see  with  the  eye  of  faith  ;  yet  we 
know  that  she  is  among  the  blessed,  for  our  bible  is 




BIOGRAPHY. 


full  of  precious  promises  to  those  that  love  and  serve 
our  Saviour  on  earth  ;  and  by  the  fruits  that  she  man 
ifested  on  earth,  we  know  that  she  reigns  in  Heaven. 
Oh  may  we  be  faithful,  and  meet  her  there  ! 

Thus  ended  her  brief  life,  like  the  cool  and  dewy 
morn  of  a  cloudless  summer  day ;  for  she  had  experi 
enced  but  little  of  the  various  ills  of  life.  And  it  is  a 
comfort,  in  our  great  affliction,  to  think  that  she  left 
us  while  life  looked  beautiful  to  her,  ere  she  had  stood 
by  the  bedside  of  dying  friends,  or  was  left  to  mourn 
their  loss  ;  for  the  fleeting  pleasures  of  earth  that  she 
could  have  enjoyed,  are  not  to  be  compared  with  the 
1  happiness  she  now  enjoys,  where  her  immortal  mind, 
J^  that  could  never  have  been  satisfied  with  earthly  things, 
can  expand  and  reach  hights  of  knowledge  unknown 
on  earth. 

She  was  a  loving  and  affectionate  daughter,  earn 
estly  desiring  to  be  an  aid  to  her  parents,  in  their  de 
clining  years,  through  the  labors  of  her  pen.  And  we, 
her  sisters,  feel  the  loss  of  her  loving  companionship 
more  than  words  can  tell ;  as  our  triple  chain  is  bro 
ken,  and  we  each  have  but  an  only  sister  now. 

Her  love  and  gratitude  for  those  who  have  assisted 
her  in  the  success  of  her  writings  by  their  influence, 
and  toward  you,  especially,  who  have  assisted  her  pe 
cuniarily,  and  by  your  influence,  far  more  than  any 
one>  was  very  great  indeed.  I  know  that  she  suf 
fered  much  anxiety,  last  winter,  with  regard  to  wri 
ting  an  addition  to  "Jane  McCrea  ;"  fearing  that  she 
would  wound  your  feelings  by  omitting ;  although  she  9*t 


BIOGRAPHY. 


of  course  was  unable  to  write.  She  earnestly  desired 
to  be  loved  for  herself,  rather  than  as  a  poetess  ;  and 
often  wondered  if  her  many  friends  would  esteem  her 
as  highly  if  she  were  not  a  writer.  I  believe  that  no 
one  became  personally  acquainted  with  her,  without 
loving  her  for  her  endearing  traits  of  character.  Al 
though  no  one  could  appreciate  the  society  of  refined 
and  cultivated  persons  more  than  herself— for  such 
were  the  minds  that  assimilated  to  hers — -yet,  when 
thrown  among  coarser  and  less  congenial  natures,  she 
would  not  affect  the  least  haughtiness,  as  some  would 
have  done,  but  be  kind  and  friendly  to  all,  as  any  true 

A  Christian  lady  would  ;  feeling  that  they  were  her  fellow 
beings,  and  that  she  might  be  of  use  to  them.  She  44? 
taught  a  class  in  the  sabbath  school,  at  the  district 
school  house,  the  summer  previous  to  her  death.  The 
Christian  spirit  shown  in  all  her  writings  demonstrate 
her  great  desire  to  do  good  ;  as  she  thought  it  wrong 
to  write,  unless  for  a  useful  purpose.  H.  M.  F. 


RECOLLECTIONS  BY  HER  MOTHER. 

OUR  beloved  child  was  born  in  Moreau,  May  2d,.1835  ; 

a  beautiful  May  flower,  oome  to  cheer  us  in  the  time  of 

singing  birds  ;  a  tender  and  delicate  babe,   so  gentle 

and  loving  through  all  her  short  life.     She  had  a  very 

\  sensitive,  tender  heart,  and  it  would  always  grieve  her  Jl 

if  to  injure  the  feelings  of  any  one  •  very  timid  and  retir-  1)f 


16 


BIOGRAPHY. 


ing  herself,  but  a  great  observer  of  people  and  things 
about  her. 

She  had  an  exquisite  love  for  the  beautiful  in  na 
ture.  Although  possessing  a  very  slender  constitution, 
she  was  a  child  that  gave  but  little  trouble.  Quiet 
and  unobtrusive  in  her  manners,  very  conscientious  and 
fearful  of  giving  offense,  is  it  any  thing  remarkable  that 
a  child  of  her  disposition  should  be  easy  to  govern  ? 

In  any  thing  she  considered  wrong,  she  was  firm  and 
unyielding. 

Poetry  was  part  of  her  being,  and  very  early  in  life 
she  commenced  writing  for  amusement;  every  bit  of 
paper  that  came  in  her  possession,  without  distinction 
of  color  or  texture,  being  written  over  with  her  com 
position,  as  she  called  it. 

Lura  was  a  child  of  nature.  With  what  rapture 
she  would  watch  the  glory  of  a  gorgeous  sunset !  Oh 
how  often  she  has  come  running  in — her  eyes  sparkling 
like  diamonds,  and  her  whole  countenance  radiant  with 
joy — and  exclaiming,  "  0  ma,  come  and  see  how  beau 
tiful  it  is !  see  the  tinted  clouds,  and  how  grand  those 
mountains  in  the  distance  look — the  clear  blue  waters 
of  the  majestic  river,  (meaning  the  Hudson,)  is  it  not 
beautiful  ?" 

Most  of  her  early  productions  were  composed  at  the 
close  of  day ;  indeed,  it  was  seldom  in  after  life  that 
she  could  compose  in  the  forepart  of  the  day.  Some 
of  her  best  pieces  were  written  in  the  night,  in  her 
wakeful  moods. 

Lura  was  a  very  affectionate  child,  and  loved  her  ?j 


BIOGRAPHY.  243  CD 


home  better  than  any  other  place.  She  was  always 
anxious  to  make  her  parents  and  sisters  happy,  though 
she  loved  her  friends  and  enjoyed  a  social  visit  with 
them.  If  others  were  happy,  she  was  happy  also.  It 
was  the  custom  of  our  beloved  child,  on  retiring  for 
the  night,  to  kiss  each  of  our  little  family,  with  a  kind 
"Good  night,"  commencing  with  her  Father;  and  she 
kissed  me  "  Good  night  Ma,"  when  life  was  leaving  its 
frail  tenement. 

She  always,  when  at  home,  read  the  bible  for  family 
prayer,  and  often  led  in  prayer  herself.     The  last  time 
that  she  did  so,  (only  a  few  weeks  before  her  death,)  she 
seemed  much  affected,  and  closed  with  the  petition  that 
A  we  might  meet,  an  unsevered  family,  in  Heaven.     She 
|  was  a  sweet  singer ;  loving  to  sing  sacred  songs  and 
\!   hymns;  and  about  two  weeks  before  her  death  (not 
having  sung  for  some  time)  she  sang,  in  feeble  though 
melodious  tones,  while  sitting  up  a  short  time,  a  few 
stanzas  of  the  hymn, 

"  Our  Lord  doeth  all  things  well." 

The  last  time  that  she  attended  church — the  first  sab 
bath  in  February  last — she  said  in  class  meeting,  "I  feel 
the  sweet  assurance  in  rny  heart  that  I  love  God," 

I  can  write  no  more  ;  though  we  know  our  beloved 
is  in  Heaven,  our 

"  Hearts  are  aching, 
Bleeding,  breaking, 
In  the  shadow  of  the  tomb." 

H.  J.  BOIES. 


r 


— 


"JFamUg 


BIRTHS. 

JEROME  BOIES,  born  June  27,  1806. 
HANNAH  J.  BOIES,  born  March  7th,  1806. 
TRIPHENA  E.  BOIES,  born  Feb.  16th,  1827. 
HELEN  M.  BOIES,  born  July  5th,  1829.* 
MARY  E.  BOIES,  born  Feb.  29th,  1832.f 
LORA  A.  BOIES,  born  May  2d,  1835. 

HELEN  M.  FRADENBURGH,  born  Dec.  16,  1849.J 
LURA  FRADENBURGH,  born  Feb.  25,  1856.§ 


DEATHS. 

TRIPHENA  E.  BOIES,  died  Feb.  13th,  1828." 


*  Mrs.  Fradenburgh. 

'The  "  Invalid  Siiter."    (Ante,  p.  137.] 


J "  Baby  Helen.    (Ante,  p.  156.] 

§  The  "  Little  Namesake."    (Ante,  p.  88.] 


(245] 


— = 


"  Oh  !  stream  of  life — The  violet  blooms 

But  once  beside  thy  bed  ; 
Biit  one  brief  Summer  o'er  thy  path 

The  dews  of  Heaven  are  shed. 
The  parent-fountains  shrink  away, 

And  close  their  crystal  veins  ; 
And  where  the  glittering  current  ran, 

The  dust  alone  remains." 


DIFFERENT.  IN  EVERY  RESPECT,  ARE  THE 

fittrarg  Remains  of  Jura  ^nna 

As  emanations  from  a  ';  Jiving  soul," 
With  power  of  rising  to  that  source's  height, 
They  may  be  likened  to  "  Siloa's  brook 
That  flowed  fast  by  the  oracle  of  God." 


"  Then  grieve  not  thou,  to  whom  the  indulgent  Muse 
Vouchsafes  a  portion  of  celestial  fire  ; 
Nor  blame  the  partial  Fates,  if  thoy  refuse 
The  imperial  banquet,  and  the  rich  attire: 
Know  thine  own  worth,  and  reverence  the  lyre. 
Wilt  thou  debase  the  heart  which  God  refined  7 
No ;  let  thy  heaven-taught  soul  to  heaven  aspire, 
To  fancy,  freedom,  harmony,  resigned  ; 
Ambition's  groveling  crew  for  ever  left  behind." 

BEATTIE'S  MINSTREL. 


[24«J 


LITERARY  REMAINS. 


THE  TWO  MAIDENS. 

AT  the  close  of  a  beautiful  day  in  the  year  1776,  two 
girls  might  have  been  seen  wending  their  way  towards 
a  large  forest  that  lined  the  banks  of  the  Hudson.  The 
elder  of  the  girls  appeared  to  be  about  seventeen  years 
of  age,  while  the  fair  young  creature  that  bounded  by 
her  side  could  scarcely  have  been  more  than  fifteen. 
They  ascended  a  beautiful  hill  that  lay  at  the  entrance 
of  the  forest,  and  gazed  in  silence  on  the  lovely  scene 
that  opened  to  their  view.  Stretching  far  beneath  them 
on  one  side,  lay  the  waters  of  the  noble  Hudson,  spark 
ling  and  flashing  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  ;  while 
on  the  other,  the  trees  of  the  forest  reared  their  proud 
heads,  and  gently  waved  their  long  banners  in  the 
breeze.  The  banks  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Hudson 
were  interspersed  with  white  cottages,  embowered  in 
trees  and  flowers ;  while  a  tiny  boat  silently  glided  up 
the  river,  adding  beauty  to  the  scene.  The  two  girls 
gazed  in  silence  for  a  moment,  when  the  elder,  whom 
we  will  call  Lily  Gordon,  said,  "  Come,  Ella,  had  we 

[247] 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


not  better  return  ;  the  shades  of  evening  are  approach 
ing,  and  it  is  not  safe  to  wander  far  from  home,  in  these 
troublous  times,  without  a  protector."  '-'Oh  !  fie,  Lily," 
said  the  wayward  girl,  "  there  can  certainly  be  no  dan 
ger  ;  the  savages,  if  that  is  to  what  you  allude,  may  be 
a  hundred  miles  from  here,  for  aught  we  know.  Come, 
seat  yourself  on  this  flowery  hillock,  and  let  us  enjoy 
this  lovely  scene  a  while  longer."  She  had  scarcely 
ceased  speaking,  when  a  deathly  palor  overspread  her 
face ;  and  she  pointed  towards  some  object,  as  yet  un 
seen  by  her  companion,  while  she  uttered,  in  a  voice 
of  startling  energy,  "Lily!  look  there:  an  Indian!" 
"Yes,  gentle  maiden,  an  Indian  !"  hissed  the  savage — 
"  a  most  dear  revenge  is  yet  to  be  satiated ;  and  you, 
Ella  Mordant,  must  be  the  victim."  Saying  this,  he 
lifted  the  form  of  the  terrified  girl  in  his  arms,  and 
plunged  into  the  deep  recesses  of  the  forest. 

With  your  permission,  gentle  reader,  we  will  now 
retrace  our  steps,  as  the  intricate  windings  of  our  nar 
rative  demand  that  we  should  give  a  few  leading  points 
in  the  history  of  those  to  whom  our  story  relates. 

William  Gordon  and  Robert  Mordant  had  formed  an 
intimacy  in  early  life,  and  they  now  resided  a  short 
distance  from  each  other,  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson. 
Mr.  Mordant  had  but  one  child, -Ella  Mordant ;  while 
his  friend  had  a  son  and  daughter,  the  latter  whom  we 
have  introduced  to  the  reader.  Francis  Gordon,  the 
brother  of  Lily,  was  to  leave  his  home  the  next  week 
to  fight  for  his  country.  A  few  days  previous  to  the 
time  our  story  commences,  Mr.  Mordant,  on  returning 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


from  a  neighboring  town,  was  waylaid  by  a  savage,  and 
a  deadly  struggle  ensued.  Mr.  Mordant  succeeded  in 
wounding  him,  and  then  left  him  ;  the  savage  vowing 
to  have  revenge  on  him  or  his  family.  Too  well  had  he 
put  his  threat  into  execution ;  for  it  was  he  that  cap 
tured  the  unsuspecting  Ella.  We  will  now  resume  the 
thread  of  our  narrative. 

The  feelings  of  Lily  Gordon,  as  she  saw  her  friend 
borne  off  in  the  arms  of  a  ruthless  savage,  may  better 
be  imagined  than  described.  She  arose  from  the  bank 
on  which  she  was  seated,  pressed  her  hand  to  her  brow, 
as  if  to  more  fully  realize  the  scene  she  had  witnessed ; 
and  as  all  that  had  transpired  came  rushing  back  upon 
her  mind  with  overwhelming  force,  she  sank  half  sense 
less  on  the  seat  from  which  she  had  arisen.  She  soon 
regained  her  composure,  and  knowing  that  every  mo 
ment  spent  in  useless  lamentation  would  endanger  the 
life  of  her  friend,  she  hurriedly  retraced  her  steps  to  her 
father's  cottage,  and,  breathless  with  haste,  related  the 
scene  she  had  witnessed. 

The  feelings  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mordant,  as  they  heard 
of  the  capture  of  their  daughter,  were  agonizing  be 
yond  description.  They  had  been  anxiously  awaiting 
the  return  of  Ella  for  a  long  time  ;  and  when  they  saw 
Mr.  Gordon  approaching  the  cottage  with  a  hurried 
step,  a  terrible  foreboding  rushed  upon  their  minds, 
and  they  were  nearly  overpowered  with  their  emotions. 
They  met  Mr.  Gordon  at  the  door  and  hurriedly  in 
quired  for  their  child,  and  with  suspended  breath  list 
ened  to  the  details  of  the  capture. 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


In  less  than  an  hour  after  Lily's  return,  a  band  of 
brave  young  men,  with  Francis  Gordon  for  their  leader, 
started  in  pursuit  of  the  captured  maiden. 

The  feelings  of  Ella  Mordant,  as  she  was  hastily 
borne  through  the  forest  in  the  arms  of  the  savage, 
were  painful  in  the  extreme.  She  knew,  by  the  fearful 
words  of  the  Indian,  that  she  need  expect  no  mercy 
from  him  ;  so  she  resolved  to  calmly  await  her  fate,  and 
put  her  trust  in  the  Being  who  is  the  guardian  of  the 
innocent.  They  pursued  their  way  through  the  thick 
ets  of  the  forest,  and  at  length  arrived  at  the  encamp 
ment  of  the  Indians. 

The  savage  that  had  captured  Ella  appeared  to  be  the 
chief  of  the  tribe  ;  and  after  placing  her  in  a  wigwam,  ^ 
with  a  sufficient  guard  against  her  escape,  he^thus  ad-  |: 
dressed  his  men : 

"  Brave  men  of  the  forest !  shall  we  tamely  yield  to 
the  pale-face,  who  is  fast  despoiling  us  of  our  lands  ? 
shall  we  never  more  be  free  to  roam  through  the  forest 
of  our  fathers,  or  shall  we  strike  for  our  lawful  rights  ? 
It  was  but  a  few  days  since,  that  your  chief  was  basely 
wounded  by  the  father  of  the  pale-faced  squaw  in  yon 
der  wigwam.  The  Great  Spirit  cries  for  revenge  !  the 
brave  spirits  of  our  fathers  cry  for  revenge !  and  shall 
they  be  denied  ?  Braves  !  will  you  see  your  chief  basely 
wounded  by  the  hand  of  the  pale-faced  coward,  without 
striking  one  blow  to  avenge  his  wrongs?"  "No!"  was 
the  response  that  burst  from  a  hundred  savage  lips  ; 
"  the  pale-faced  squaw  shall  die  by  the  hand  of  the  red 
man."  "  Enough,"  said  the  chief,  with  a  satisfied  air,  1$ 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


"  the  white  man  cannot  trace  the  track  of  the  Indian 
to-night ;  and  before  the  sun  shall  again  set  over  the 
graves  of  our  fathers,  the  daughter  of  the  pale^face  shall 
be  silent  in  the  sleep  of  death."  The  savages  then  lay 
down  on  the  leafy  couches,  and  were  soon  wrapped  in 
repose. 

Ella  had  listened  with  breathless  interest  to  the  words 
of  the  chief,  and,  when  her  doom  was  pronounced,  she 
clasped  her  hands  in  agony,  and  implored  her  Creator 
to  save  her  from  the  cruel  hands  of  the  savages.  Her 
thoughts  turned  to  her  father's  cottage  ;  sh6  pictured 
the  agony  of  her  parents,  and  the  grief  of  her  friends, 
when  they  heard  of  the  capture  ;  then  the  noble  form 
of  Francis  Gordon  rose  up  before  her  view,  and  she 
wept  tears  of  anguish  at  the  thought  of  never  seeing 
her  friends  again.  A  few  hours  before,  she  had  left 
her  father's  cottage  with  her  friend  Lily,  a  happy,  joy 
ous  maiden,  and  where  was  she  now  ?  In  the  heart  of  a 
dense  forest,  surrounded  by-  savages,  with  a  guard  at 
her  door,  and  no  hopes  of  escape.  Sad,  indeed,  were 
the  thoughts  of  the  guileless  young  girl  as  all  these 
scenes  rushed  upon  her  mind,  and  she  leaned  against 
her  rude  couch  for  support. 

While  indulging  in  these  melancholy  reflections^  with 
her  beautiful  face  bowed  in  her  hands,  and  her  eloquent 
eyes  suffused  with  tears,  a  slight  noise,  which  appeared 
to  be  behind  her,  attracted  her  attention ;  she  hastily 
turned  around,  and  beheld  the  handsome  features  of 
Francis  Gordon  before  her.  Putting  his  finger  to  his  lips  A 
in  token  of  silence,  he  gently  lifted  her  in  his  arms  and 


252  LITERARY    REMAINS. 

bore  her  from  the  wigwam  to  his  men,  who  were  anx 
iously  awaiting  his  return.  Ella  was  placed  on  a  fleet 
steed,  and  they  were  soon  beyond  the  pursuit  of  the 
savages. 

Mr.  Mordant  and  Mr.  Gordon  went  to  the  entrance 
of  the  forest  to  await  the  coming  of  the  little  band, 
and  learn  the  success  of  their  adventure.  The  red 
streaks  of  morning  had  appeared  in  the  east,  when  they 
heard  the  distant  tramp  of  footsteps.  They  hastily 
entered  the  forest,  for  the  feelings  of  the  agonized  fa 
ther  would  not  permit  him  to  wait  for  their  arrival. 
Words  cannot  paint  the  joy  of  Mr.  Mordant,  when  he 
saw  his  daughter  and  pressed  her  to  his  heart. 

They  soon  arrived  at  the  entrance  of  the  forest  and 
cast  their  eyes  towards  their  homes.  What  a  scene  was 
presented, to  their  view  !  Instead  of  the  neat  cottage 
and  joyous  faces  that  they  expected  would  meet  their 
gaze,  there  was  nothing  but  a  blackened  mass  of  smok 
ing  ruins,  and  not  a  human  form  in  sight.  Half  frantic 
with  this  new  calamity,  they  explored  the  burning 
ruins ;  but  as  they  saw  nothing  of  their  friends,  this 
led  them  to  suppose  that  they  were  captured.  Leaving 
Ella  at  the  house  of  a  friend  three  miles  distant,  they 
again  prepared  to  explore  the  forest,  with  the  addition 
of  sixty  men  to  their  small  band. 

While  Mrs.  Mordant,  her  friends  and  Lily,  were  anx 
iously  awaiting  the  return  of  their  friends,  they  were 
startled  by  the  shrill  war-whoop  of  the  Indians,  and 
the  cottage  was  soon  in  flames.  They  were  then  firmly 
bound,  with  the  exception  of  Lily,  who  was  guarded  by 


LITERAKY    REMAINS.  253 


a  tall  Indian,  and  then  borne  from  the  burning  tene 
ment  by  the  savages,  and  both  cottages  were  soon  de 
stroyed.  Their  feelings,  as  they  saw  their  beautiful 
homes,  in  which  they  had  spent  so  many  happy  hours, 
despoiled  by  the  rude  hand  of  the  red  man,  were  pain 
ful  beyond  description.  They  were  hurried  through 
the  forest  at  a  rapid  pace,  and  were  nearly  overcome 
with  fatigue,  when  some  object  intercepted  their  pro 
gress,  which  proved  to  be  an  enormous  bear ;  and  in 
the  confusion  of  the  moment,  when  each  one  was  striv 
ing  to  kill  it,  Lily  contrived  to  escape,  unnoticed  by 
the  Indians.  They  soon  succeeded  in  despatching  the 
animal,  and  then  resumed  their  march,  unconscious  of 
the  escape  of  Lily. 

When  the  tramp  of  their  footsteps  had  subsided,  she 
turned  to  flee  to  her  ruined  home  to  await  the  arrival 
of  her  friends,  and  tell  them  the  direction  the  Indians 
had  taken.  Wholly  unacquainted  with  that  part  of 
the  forest,  she  knew  not  which  way  to  turn ;  and  after 
vainly  endeavoring  to  find  a  path  that  would  lead  her 
from  the  wilderness,  she  sank  down  exhausted  at  the 
foot  of  a  tree,  and  relieved  her  over-burthened  heart  in  a 
flood  of  tears.  She  was  soon  startled  by  a  slight  noise, 
and  turning  to  look  in  the  direction  from  whence  it 
proceeded,  she  beheld  a  handsome  young  man,  dressed 
in  the  uniform  of  an  American  soldier.  A  silence  of 
some  minutes  ensued,  which  was  at  length  broken,  by 
the  young  man  gracefully  apologizing  for  intruding 
upon  her  so  suddenly  ;  saying  that  he  was  on  his  way 
to  the  American  camp,  and  had  lost  his  path  in  the 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


wilderness.  Lily  had  by  this  time  recovered  the  use 
of  her  truant  tongue,  and  knowing  that  as  he  was  an 
American  soldier  she  had  nothing  to  fear,  she  related 
all  that  had  befallen  her  since  the  capture  of  her  friend. 
With  flashing  eye  and  indignant  mien,  the  young  man 
listened  to  the  persecutions  of  the  fair  maiden  and  her 
family  •  and  when  she  had  finished  her  short  account, 
he  exclaimed,  "  Will  the  cloud  that  rests  over  our  coun 
try  never  be  dispersed  ?  Shall  proud  England  continue 
to  trample  over  the  brave  hearts  of  America  ?  No ! 
The  prayers  of  the  widow  and  the  tears  of  the  orphan 
are  not  unheeded  by  the  Kuler  of  mankind.  Freedom 
will  surely  triumph,  and  America  shall  soon  cease  to 
struggle  with  the  galling  chains  that  bind  her."  <(  Yes," 
§  said  Lily,  "  the  struggle  has  been  long  and  desperate, 
and  many  brave  hearts  have  sold  their  blood  to  gain 
the  victory ;  and  though  we  are  enveloped  in  darkness, 
I  trust  that  Peace  will  again  resume  her  station  in  the 
country  which  she  has  forsaken."  "  If  you  are  not  too 
much  exhausted  with  your  night's  march,  we  will  en 
deavor  to  thread  our  way  through  the  depths  of  this 
apparently  impenetrable  wilderness  ;  for  I  long  to  lend 
my  feeble  aid  in  behalf  of  the  glorious  cause  of  free 
dom  and  our  country,"  said  the  young  soldier,  when 
Lily  had  ceased  speaking.  "  It  is  with  the  greatest 
pleasure  that  I  embrace'  your  proposal,"  said  she,  (( for 
I  know  not  where  to  look  for  my  scattered  family,  and 
perhaps  if  we  could  find  a  path  that  would  lead  us  from 
this  wilderness,  I  could  find  some  clue  by  which  to 
trace  them." 


LITERARY    REMAINS.  255 

tf   " 

We  will  now  leave  them  threading  their  way  through 
the  forest,  and  turn  to  those  who  are  exploring  it. 

Onward,  onward,  with  fleet  steps  and  anxious  hearts, 
they  pursued  their  toilsome  inarch  ;  and  night  had 
again  drawn  its  starry  curtains  around  the  earth,  when 
they  arrived  at  the  encampment  of  the  Indians.  The 
fight  that  ensued  was  long  and  desperate  ;  but  with  the 
resolve  to  conquer  or  die,  the  little  band  came  off  vic 
torious. 

Mrs.  Gordon  and  Mrs.  Mordant  could  in  no  way  ac 
count  for  the  mysterious  disappearance  of  Lily,  and  the 
brave  men  that  comprised  the  band  resolved  to  start 
the  next  day  in  pursuit  of  her.  They  regained  the  en 
trance  of  the  forest  just  as  Lily  and  her  companion  had 
arrived  at  her  ruined  home. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  meeting  between 
them  ;  for  it  would  be  useless  to  exert  my  feeble  pow 
ers  in  a  scene  that  can  better  be  imagined  than  de 
scribed.  Lily  introduced  her  companion  to  them  as 
Edward  Mansfield,  and  then  related  her  adventures  in 
the  forest.  The  joy  of  the  light-hearted  girl,  Ella,  when 
she  saw  her  friends  approaching  the  house  in  which  they 
had  left  her,  exceeded  all  bounds.  The  following  day 
Edward  Mansfield  and  Francis  Gordon  started  for  the 
American  camp. 

Kind  reader,  we  wilt  pass  over  to  the  time  when 
America  had  burst  the  chains  that  bound  her,  and 
proudly  waved  her  star-spangled  banner,  to  proclaim 
that  she  was  once  more  free. 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


It  was  a  beautiful  evening  in  the  month  of  June, 
that  a  group,  which  consisted  of  four  persons,  seated 
themselves  on  the  same  flowery  hillock  which  Lily  Gor 
don  and  Ella  Mordant  occupied  at  the  commencement 
of  our  story.  That  beautiful  girl,  with  the  long  raven 
curls,  and  brilliant  black  eye,  is  now  called  Lily  Mans 
field  ;  while  the  young  man  at  her  side,  with  the  lofty 
brow  and  noble  bearing,  is  Edward  Mansfield.  And 
now,  can  you  guess  who  that  fairy-like  creature  is,  with 
the  soft  flaxen  ringlets,  and  rich  pouting  lips  ?  Oh  ! 
you  say,  that  is  Ella  Mordant :  not  so,  gentle  reader — 
she,  too,  has  changed  her  name.  And  as  she  looks  at 
the  handsome  young  man  at  her  side,  she  draws  up  her 
tiny  form,  and  seems  to  say,  you  may  now  call  me 
Mrs.  Gordon. 


HELEN  IRVING: 

OE,   A  SISTER'S  INFLUENCE 


CHAPTER  I. 

IT  was  the  peaceful  twilight  of  a  Summer's  day.     The 
brilliant  hues  of  a  cloudless  sunset  still  lingered  over 
the  earth,  and  the  western  sky  irradiated  by  the  dying 
beams  of  an  August  sun,  like  a  waveless  sea  of  molten 
gold,  glowed  resplendent  in  the  softened  gloom  of  twi 
light.     The  last  beams  of  daylight  yet  lingered  over    I 
forest  and  hill,  seemingly  loth  to  depart ;  and  so  deli-  J^ 
cately  were  the  sunset  beams  interwoven  with  the  som-  M 

^ 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


bre  shadows  of  night,  that  the  most  experienced  eye 
could  not  discern  where  fading  light  was  lost  in  dark 
ness.  It  was  a  picture  on  which  the  glowing  imagina 
tion  of  a  poet  would  love  to  dwell,  and  which  the  pencil 
of  an  artist  might  delight  to  sketch. 

Long  had  the  beauty-loving  eye  of  Helen  Irving 
rested  upon  the  changing  scene ;  and  now,  as  the  length 
ened  shadows  of  night  were  drawn  more  closely  around 
the  earth,  and  caused  a  deeper  glow  to  rest  on  the 
stately  trees  that  shaded  her  uncle's  splendid  residence, 
a  feeling  of  indescribable  sadness  stole  over  her  senses, 
and  a  troubled,  anxious  look  disturbed  the  usual  com 
posure  of  her  lovely  features,  proclaiming  her  thoughts 
to  be  of  a  painful  nature.  As  she  became  more  deeply 
absorbed  in  thought,  the  wonted  brilliancy  of  her  dark 
eye  assumed  a  softer  light ;  and  the  meditations  that 
occupied  her  mind,  fell  from  her  lips  in  murmurs  soft 
as  the  breath  of  evening  which  now  floated  through  the 
open  window,  and  lifted  the  dark  curls  from  her  feverish 
brow.  "  Alas  !  I  tremble  when  I  think  of  what  may 
be  his  fate.  He  is  now  about  to  go  forth  into  a  wide 
and  sinful  world,  with  no  one  to  restrain  his  passions, 
or  warn  him  when  inclined  to  yield  to  temptation.  It 
is  true,  he  has  a  noble  and  generous  nature ;  and  I  have 
often  heard  him  express  his  disapprobation  of  the  vices 
and  follies  of  those  that  attend  some  of  our  most  pop 
ular  institutions,  but- " 

Her  soliloquy  was  here  interrupted  by  the  entrance 
of  her  brother,  a  tall,  handsome  youth  of  some  seven- 


258  LITERARY    REMAINS. 

teen  or  eighteen  years.  Observing  the  look  of  sadness 
that  rested  on  his  sister's  features,  he  said — 

"  Why  so  sad  to-riight,  dear  Helen  ?  Pray,  what 
all-engrossing  subject  has  caused  so  dark  a  cloud  to 
gather  on  the  fair  brow  of  iny  beautiful  sister  ?" 

"  The  all-engrossing  subject  that  occupied  my  mind," 
she  replied,  "  was  yourself." 

"An  important  one,  truly,"  answered  he  laughingly ; 
"but  am  I  so  repulsive  to  your  thoughts,  as  to  cause 
so  dark  a  shade  to  gather  on  your  brow  !" 

"  Certainly  not,  dear  Edward  ;  but  I  was  thinking 
that  to-morrow  is  the  appointed  day  for  your  departure." 

"  Surely,  it  had  nearly  escaped  my  memory ;  but  I 
trust  that  the  agreeable  company  of  Ernest  Clifford  will 
amply  compensate  for  the  loss  of  mine." 

u  I  was  thinking,  Edward,"  she  replied,  not  appa 
rently  noticing  his  last  remark,  "  of  the  tempt ;" 

she  hesitated,  as  if  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed. 

"  Speak  on,  Helen,  it  is  the  last  evening  we  shall 
spend  together  in  a  long,  long  time ;  then  let  no  feel 
ing  of  false  timidity  interrupt  the  free  interchange  of 
thought  that  has  ever  existed  between  us." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  deem  my  fears  groundless,  but  I 
was  thinking  of  the  temptations  which  will  probably 
surround  you  in  the  new  sphere  of  action,  in  which 
you  are  about  to  move  ;  and  knowing  your  youth  and 
inexperience,  I  feared  that  you  might  yield  to  vicious 
influences." 

"  It  is  true  that  I  am  both  young  and  inexperienced, 
but  I  trust  that  I  have  sufficient  natural  strength  of 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


character  to  enable  me  not  to  be  swayed  to  and  fro  by 
every  passing  breath." 

'•'  Ah,  my  dear  brother,  I  fear  that  you  place  too 
much  confidence  in  your  own  strength.  Kemember 
that  vice  often  assumes  the  form  of  virtue,  and  that 
temptation  will  assail  you  in  its  most  alluring  form. 
And  oh  !  Edward,  if  you  cherish  the  memory  of  her 
who  was  the  guide  and  counsellor  of  our  early  years, 
never,  I  beseech  you,  raise  the  sparkling  wine  cup  to 
your  lips  !  When  you  are  tempted,  think  of  the  hour, 
the  never-to-be-forgotten  hour,  when  our  sainted  mother 
placed  her  pale,  emaciated  hand  upon  your  head,  and 
solemnly  entreated  you  to  shun  all  intoxicating  drinks 
as  you  would  the  breath  of  a  foul  demon,  designing  to 
destroy  your  present  and  eternal  happiness — think  of  | 
the  look  of  deep  and  untold  anguish  that  rested  on  her  u 
pallid  features,  as  she  alluded  to  the  blight  that  had 
fallen  on  our  once  happy  home  ;  that  had  embittered  her 
life,  and  at  length  brought  her  to  an  untimely  grave — • 
think  of  that  dark  hour,  and  remember  that  our  noble 
and  gifted  father  died  the  death  of  a  DRUNKARD  !" 

The  fire  of  an  unusual  energy  flashed  from  the  dark 
eye  of  Helen  Irving  as  she  spoke,  and  her  voice  was 
tremulous  with  emotion.  Edward  had  never  before 
seen  his  sister  so  excited ;  and  feeling  most  deeply  the 
force  of  her  remarks,  he  mentally  resolved  never  to 
wound  that  sister's  gentle  nature,  by  yielding  to  temp 
tation.  Ah  !  how  little  did  he  know  the  weakness  of 
his  own  heart  ! 




LITERARY    REMAINS. 


CHAPTER  II. 

In  commencing  a  new  chapter,  we  will  relate  a  few 
particulars  in  the  past  history  of  the  persons  whom  we 
have  somewhat  abruptly  introduced  to  the  reader. 

A  few  years  before  the  time  our  story  opens,  Mr. 
Irving  had  fallen  a  victim  to  intemperance,  and  his 
broken  hearted  wife  soon  after  followed  him  to  the 
grave,  thus  leaving  Helen  friendless  and  alone,  in  the 
large  and  densely  populated  city  of  C •. 

Mr.  Melville,  a  wealthy,  good  natured  old  bachelor, 
who  resided  in  the  "  Empire  State,"  and  who  was  the 
only  brother  of  Mrs.  Irving,  on  receiving  tidings  of  his  J 
sister's  death,  immediately  hastened  to  the  bereaved  | 
orphans,  and  offered  his  roof  as  a  shelter  to  their  now   \ 
'  homeless  heads.     From  that  day  his  dwelling  had  been    \ 
to  them  a  peaceful  home,  and  they  looked  upon  him  as 
a  second  parent,  though  the  painful  scenes  of  the  past 
could  never  be  effaced  from  the  memory  of  Helen,  who 
at  the  time  of  her  parents'  death  had  numbered  but 
twelve  summers,  Edward  being  two  years  her  junior. 

Mr.  Melville  had  allowed  no  expense  to  be  spared  on 
the  education  of  his  niece  and  nephew.  At  the  time 
our  story  commences,  the  latter  was  about  entering  a 
celebrated  literary  institution,  in  order  to  complete  a 
course  of  studies  that  would  fit  him  for  any  profession 
that  he  might  desire  to  follow. 

We  will  now  resume  the  broken  thread  of  events,  and 
accompany  Edward  to  the  stately  edifice,  where  is  con- 


LITERARY    RE  MAINS.  261 


tained  some  of  America's  best  and  most  splendid  spe 
cimens  of  literature.  With  high  hopes  and  brilliant 
dreams  of  future  fame  and  glory,  he  entered  the  proud 
halls  of  science,  resolved  to  bend  his  most  powerful  en 
ergies  to  the  noble  pursuit  of  learning,  in  order  to  ren 
der  himself  worthy  of  that  pure  fount  of  affection,  that 
flowed  from  the  heart  of  his  gentle,  yet  talented  and 
high-soul ed  sister. 

Various  were  the  temptations  to  which  he  was  daily 
exposed,  and  many  the  attempts  made  by  a  company 
of  dissipated  young  men  to  entice  him  into  their  snares  ; 
but  the  memory  of  that  loved  sister,  like  a  guardian 
angel,  served  to  shield  him  from  the  allurements  of  vice.  I 
Oft,  when  the  wine  cup  was  raised  to  his  lips,  as  he 
peered  down  into  its  ruby  depths,  a  dark  eye  seemed 
sorrowfully  bent  upon  him,  and  these  words  glittered 
in  characters  of  light  before  him,  as  if  legibly  stamped 
upon  the  glowing  surface — "  Oh,  Edward,  if  you  cher 
ish  the  memory  of  her  who  was  the  guide  and  counsel 
lor  of  our  early  years,  never,  I  beseech  you,  raise  the 
sparkling  wine  cup  to  your  lips !"  It  was  enough :  in 
many  a  fearful  hour  these  words  saved  him ;  and  puri 
fied  by  temptation,  he  daily  grew  in  the  love  and  esteem 
of  his  tutors,  and  promised  fair  to  become  a  bright  or 
nament  to  his  country,  and  an  honor  to  his  name.  Ah  ! 
how  little  did  he  know  the  dark  scenes  he  had  yet  to 
pass  through,  ere  the  dreams  that  thronged  his  mind 
in  bright  perspective,  were  to  be  realized  !  But  we  will 
not  anticipate. 

Being,  one  evening,  in  the  company  of  a  dissolute 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


young  man,  his  guardian  angel  deserted  him ;  and  in 
this,  the  darkest  hour  of  trial,  he  yielded  to  temptation. 
One  glass  taken,  he  felt  no  compunction  in  draining  the 
contents  of  another;  and,  in  the  silent  darkness  of  the 
midnight  hour,  he  staggered  to  his  room  in  a  state  of 
beastly  intoxication.  We  will  not  dwell  on  the  degrad 
ing  scenes  that  marked  his  downward  career ;  but  suf 
fice  it  to  say,  that  from  that  night  he  became  dissipated 
and  unsteady  in  his  habits,  and  daily  grew  more  defi 
cient  in  his  studies.  In  a  few  short  weeks  he  and  a  num 
ber  of  his  vile  associates  were  expelled  from  the  insti 
tution. 

Where,  now,  were  the  hopes  that  dawned  so  sweetly 
upon  him  when  he  entered  the  pillared  halls  of  science  ? 
Where  the  wild  fancies  that  thronged  his  mind,  when 
he  stood  on  the  marble  steps  of  his  uncle's  stately  man 
sion,  and  bade  his  sister  adieu  ? 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  I  have  seen  angels  by  the  sick  one's  pillow  ; 

Theirs  was  the  soft  tone  and  the  groundless  tread. 
Where  smitten  hearts  were  drooping  like  the  willow  ; 

They  stood  between  the  living  and  the  dead. 
And  if  my  sight  by  earthly  dimness  hindered, 

Beheld  no  hovering  cherubim  in  air, 
I  doubted  not,  for  spirits  knew  their  kindred, 

They  smiled  upon  the  wingless  watchers  there." 

Night,  calm  and  beautiful,  had  once  more  folded  her 
starry  wings  over  a  sleeping  world.  Silently  onward 
glided  the  noble  Hudson,  reflecting  beneath  its  blue  wa 
ters  the  broad  arch  of  Heaven,  dotted  with  countless 
millions  of  starry  islands,  which  glistened  from  beneath 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


the  waves,  and  caused  the  golden  gems  above  to  peer 
down  from  their  high  homes,  and  muse  as  if  in  wonder 
at  their  own  loneliness.  A  dim  and  dreary  radiance 
fell  on  the  wavy  outline  of  distant  mountains,  and 
bathed  in  light  the  silken  banners  of  forest  and  grove, 
conspiring  to  render  the  scene  such  as  we  sometimes  see 
in  a  beautiful  dream,  when  the  soul,  freed  from  earthly 
bondage,  soars  on  the  azure  wing  of  fancy  to  her  serial 
abodes.  Italy  may  boast  of  the  splendor  of  her  moon 
light  skies,  and  the  beauty  of  her  time-renowned  scenes ; 
but  never  did  the  pale  "bride  of  the  sun"  sail  more 
silently  over  the  ethereal  blue  of  an  oriental  sky — rest 
I  with  a  holier  light  on  the  palace-lined  streets  of  stately 
J4  Florence,  or  proud  Home  in  its  departed  glory — than 
|  upon  this,  a  quiet  scene  of  our  own  loved  land. 

Helen  Irving  again  stood  by  the  recess  of  an  open  win 
dow  and  looked  upon  the  broad  dome  of  Heaven ;  but 
this  time  she  heeded  not  its  beauties,  for  her  thoughts 
were  far,  far  away  with  her  absent  brother.     With  the 
glossy  ringlets  of  her  dark  hair  wreathed  back  in  graceful 
folds  from  off  the  high,  pale  brow,  the  soft  eye  upraised 
in  tearless  agony  to  Heaven,  she  seemed  more  like  a  stat 
ue  of  Parian  marble,  than  a  being  endowed  with  life 
and  motion.    But  why  does  she  stand  so  pale  and  im 
movable  ?    Why  does  that  look  of  anguish  rest  upon 
the  faultlessly  chiseled  features  ?     The  soft  moonlight 
streaming   through  the   open  window   falls   upon   an 
I    open  letter,  and  with  your  consent,  dear  reader,  we  will 
jl  glance  at  its  contents,  as  they  may  serve  to  explain 
"  the  mystery. 


264  LITERARY    REMAINS. 

"  My  dear  Sister : — You  will  upbraid  me — yes,  you 
will  curse  me  in  your  heart,  when  you  read  these  lines, 
and  I  justly  merit  your  displeasure.  Cruelly,  most  cru 
elly,  have  I  deceived  you  ;  and  while  you  fondly  dreamed 
that  I  was  winning  bright  laurels  from  the  wreath  of 
fame,  how  little  did  you  know  the  sad  reality !  But 
I  will  keep  you  no  longer  in  suspense ;  and  humiliating 
as  is  the  thought  that  you,  pure  and  guileless  as  you 
are,  should  know  of  my  disgrace,  yet  I  feel  that  I  must 
tell  you  all-^-yes,  from  the  dark  hour  when  first  I  yield 
ed  to  the  debasing  influences  of  intoxication,  to  the  pres 
ent  scenes  of  sorrow  and  suffering. 

Many  times  the  remembrance  of  your  gentle  coun 
sels  shielded  me  from  the  polluting  breath  of  vice ;  but 
on  one  occasion  temptation  assailed  me  in  its  most  al 
luring  form,  and  in  an  unguarded  moment  I  yielded,  and 
fell.  I  will  not  dwell  upon  the  revolting  scenes  that 
followed  ;  suffice  it  to  say,  that  they  finally  terminated 
in  my  disgraceful  departure  from  the  halls  of  learn 
ing,  together  with  those  who  beguiled  me  from  the 
path  of  virtue.  Guilty  and  degraded  as  I  was,  I  dared 
not  meet  the  holy  gaze  of  one  so  pure  and  guileless 
as  yourself;  and  yielding  to  the  urgent  entreaties  of 
one  of  my  companions,  I  repaired  with  him  to  his 
father's  residence  in  Philadelphia,  where  I  have  since 
remained.  The  liberal  supplies  of  money  furnished  me 
by  my  uncle,  before  I  was  expelled  from  college,  have 
enabled  me  to  lead  a  course  of  life  at  which,  in  the  days 
of  my  innocence,  I  should  have  shuddered  ;  and  so  sad 
have  been  the  effects  of  dissipation  upon  my  constitu- 




~ 

LITERARY    REMAINS.  265  SB 


tion,  that  I  am  at  length  prostrated  upon  a  bed  of  sick 
ness  and  suffering,  far,  far  away  from  my  own  loved 
home. 

Mary  Howard,  the  sister  of  my  friend,  has  attended 
me  during  the  days  of  my  illness ;  and  oft,  as  I  gaze 
into  the  spiritual  depths  of  her  earnest  eyes,  and  mark 
the  cloud  of  sadness  that  gathers  on  her  brow  at  the 
mention  of  her  brother's  name,  I  seem  once  more  to  be 
in  the  presence  of  my  absent  sister — I  seem  once  more 
to  hear  thy  gentle  tones — and,  in  the  agony  of  my  heart, 
I  call  on  God  to  smite  me  to  the  earth  in  justice. 

Farewell,  dear  Helen,  I  can  write  no  more,  for  my 
brain  is  reeling,  and  my  hand  grows  weak ;  leave  me 
to  my  fate,  and  forget  your  erring  but  now  penitent 
brother,  EDWARD." 

"  Never  will  I  desert  him  as  long  as  life  shall  last !  The 
language  of  his  letter  breathes  repentance,  and  he  may 
yet  be  reclaimed  from  the  error  of  his  ways."  Such  were 
the  thoughts  of  Helen  Irving  as  she  read  the  above  lines  ; 
and  now,  as  she  looked  forth  in  the  calm  moonlight,  she 
silently  implored  the  aid  of  Heaven  in  assisting  her  in 
the  discharge  of  the  duty  which  she  owed  her  brother. 
The  ensuing  morning  this  noble-hearted  girl  started 
for  Philadelphia,  and  in  the  space  of  a  few  short  hours 
she  stood  by  her  brother's  bedside.  But  he  who  was 
wont  to  welcome  her  with  a  smile,  now  lay  unconscious 
of  her  presence ;  for  reason  had  deserted  her  throne,  it 
was  feared  never  more  to  return.  Wildly  she  pressed  her 
lips  to  his  burning  brow  and  called  upon  his  name,  but 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


he  heeded  not  the  music  of  those  syren  tones  which  had 
ever  won  their  way  to  his  heart,  and  to  which  it  had  been 
his  delight  to  listen.  Oh  !  who  can  tell  the  grief  that 
pierced  that  sister's  heart,  as  she  bent  in  speechless  ag 
ony  over  his  couch,  and  listened  to  the  incoherent  sen 
tences  that  fell  from  his  lips,  as  with  the  observing  eye 
of  love  she  marked  the  dew  of  agony  gather  on  his  noble 
brow,  and  saw  the  wild  light  of  delirium  dim  the  bril 
liancy  of  his  dark  eye.  Oft  were  the  tears  of  Mary 
Howard  mingled  with  those  of  this  devoted  girl,  and 
their  prayers  for  Edward's  recovery  were  offered  to  the 
throne  of  Grace.  Days  and  nights  of  ceaseless  watch 
ing  passed  away,  and  the  crisis  arrived  that  was  to 
restore  a  brother  to  a  sister's  heart,  or  bear  him  to 
"  death's  dark  door." 

It  was  an  hour  of  fearful  anxiety.  Helen  Irving  knelt 
by  the  sufferer's  bedside,  and  Mary  Howard  silently 
glided  from  the  apartment,  fearful  lest  her  very  breath 
should  disturb  his  short  repose.  The  angels  looked  down 
in  pity  on  the  sorrowing  hearts,  and  the  sister's  prayers 
were  wafted  to  the  gates  of  Heaven.  Slowly  the  light 
of  reason  dawned  upon  the  sufferer  ;  and  when  he  awoke 
from  that  fearful  slumber,  the  wild  fire  of  his  eye  was 
subdued  in  the  light  of  returning  consciousness.  The 
first  object  that  met  his  bewildered  gaze,  was  the  form 
of  his  kneeling  sister.  We  will  not  dwell  on  the  scene 
that  followed.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  tears  of  joy  were 
mingled  with  those  of  deep  repentance,  and  that  hope 
once  more  dawned  sweetly  upon  the  inmates  of  that 
darkened  chamber.  Thoughts  too  deep  for  utterance 


LITERARY    REMAINS.  267 


swelled  the  heart  of  Edward,  as  he  witnessed  his  sis 
ter's  untiring  devotion  ;  and  oft,  as  she  bathed  his  burn 
ing  brow  and  held  the  cooling  cup  to  his  parched  lips, 
he  longed  to  breathe  to  her  the  remorse  of  his  soul, 
and  hear  those  gentle  tones  whisper  the  blest  words  of 
forgiveness  ;  but  perfect  quiet  was  essential  to  his  recov 
ery,  and  he  must  wait  till  strength  orice  more  returned. 
At  length  kind  Heaven  blessed  the  efforts  of  our  noble 
Helen,  and  Edward  slowly  recovered.  Many  were  the 
happy  days  spent  during  his  convalescence,  and  the  con 
versations  with  which  they  beguiled  the  weary  hours 
were  pleasant.  The  promises  of  Edward  to  turn  from 
his  evil  ways  were  fervently  uttered,  and  at  his  sister's 
A  request  he  signed  the  pledge  of  total  abstinence,  thus 
showing  his  professions  of  amendment  to  be  sincere. 

Weeks  passed  unconsciously  away,  and  when  spring 
once  more  returned  to  gladden  the  earth  with  her  smiles, 
Helen  and  Edward  bade  the  gay  city  adieu,  and  sought 
the  quiet  retirement  of  their  home  on  the  banks  of  the 
Hudson,  where  they  were  cordially  welcomed  by  Mr. 
Melville. 

The  balmy  breath  of  spring,  and  the  pure  air  of  the 
country,  soon  restored  Edward  to  his  wonted  health  and 
vigor,  and  in  a  few  weeks  he  again  entered  on  a  collegi 
ate  course  of  studies;  but  this  time  he  yielded  not  to 
the  surrounding  temptations,  for  the  scenes  enacted  in 
the  sad  drama  of  the  past  were  ever  before  him.  At  the 
expiration  of  two  years  he  left  college,  crowned  with 
honors  that  exceeded  his  brightest  expectations. 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


Reader,  see  you  yonder  noble  mansion  situated  on  the 
banks  of  the  beautiful  Ohio,  and  mark  you  the  quiet 
elegance  that  pervades  this  stately  dwelling  of  the  far- 
famed  west  ?  Fain  would  we  know  who  are  the  occu 
pants  of  this  princely  abode  ;  and  with  your  consent  we 
will  enter  the  garden  gate  and  walk  up  the  broad  ave 
nue.  But  pause !  perhaps  the  scene  before  you  may 
serve  to  enlighten  our  curiosity,  and  we  will  rest  awhile 
beneath  the  boughs  of  this  towering  sycamore.  In  the 
open  door  sits  a  lady  of  surpassing  beauty,  gazing  with 
all  a  mother's  pride  upon  a  fair-haired  little  girl  at  her 
feet.  See  what  a  fount  of  affection  beams  from  the 
depths  of  her  full,  dark  eye,  as  she  gracefully  stoops 
and  imprints  a  kiss  upon  the  child-like  brow  beneath  ; 
and  how  beautiful  does  she  look,  as  the  luxuriant  curls 
of  her  dark  hair  escape  from  their  confinement,  and 
mingle  with  the  sunny  tresses  of  the  little  one ! 

Reader,  this  lovely  woman  once  bore  the  name  of 
Helen  Irving ;  but  she  is  now  the  happy  wife  of  Ernest 
Clifford,  who  has  once  before  been  alluded  to,  and  who 
is  every  way  worthy  of  the  noble  girl  whom  he  "wooed 
and  won"  on  the  banks  of  the  majestic  Hudson.  See  ! 
there  he  sits  by  the  open  window  conversing  with  an 
elderly  gentleman  whom  he  addresses  as  "  uncle,"  and 
whom  you  will  not  fail  to  recognize  as  Mr.  Melville. 
This  old  and  well-tried  friend  occasionally  visits  his  niece 
in  her  western  home,  and  beguiles  many  a  weary  hour 
in  listening  to  the  artless  prattle  of  "  little  Helen." 

We  will  now  draw  a  veil  over  the  happy  scene,  and 
betake  our  way  to  yonder  lofty  edifice,  which  the  boughs 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


of  this  stately  tree  have  before  shielded  from  our  obser 
vation.  Here  we  are  close  by  the  yard  fence ;  but  hark  ! 
merry  voices  are  borne  upon  the  passing  breeze,  and  we 
will  peep  through  the  branches  of  this  clustering  rose 
bush  and  view  the  joyous  scene  within.  Two  curly  head 
ed  little  urchins  are  twining  a  wreath  of  wild  flowers, 
gathered  from  the  blooming  prairie,  with  which  they 
are  about  to  crown  the  brow  of  a  fair  lady,  whom,  if 
we  mistake  not,  we  have  before  seen  in  the  character  of 
Mary  Howard.  But  time  brings  many  changes,  and 
our  gentle  Mary  has  long  filled  with  grace,  it  not  with 
dignity,  her  station  as  the  wife  of  Judge  Irving.  The 
proud  husband  now  sits  on  the  front  piazza,  and  views 
with  pleasure  the  merry  scene  before  him.  A  gleam  of 
satisfaction  lights  his  handsome  features,  as  he  gazes  on 
the  lovely  group  ;  and  he  gratefully  acknowledged,  that 
he  owed  his  present  happiness  to  a  SISTER'S  INFLUENCE. 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


AUNT   EMMA'S   STORY: 

OR   THE   EVILS   OF   COQUETRY. 


"  WHY  do  you  look  so  grave,  dear  aunt  ?  I  am  sure 
there  is  no  sin  in  a  little  harmless  coquetry." 

"  Harmless  coquetry !  Oh !  Kate,  Kate,  if  you  had 
witnessed  the  effects  of  what  you  style  harmless  coquet 
ry,  you  would  consign  this  scornful  note  to  the  flames, 
and  never  more  seek  to  trifle  with  the  heart  of  man." 

"  You  are  a  strange  woman,  aunt  Emma,  and  talk 
as  though  you  were  experienced  in  matters  of  the  heart ; 
but  I  will  comply  with  your  request,  and  burn  this 
epistle,  which  was  intended  for  Sidney  Howard,  only 
on  one  condition." 

"  Name  it  then,  for  I  will  do  any  thing  for  your  hap 
piness,  which  I  fear  you  value  too  lightly ;  though  if 
it  were  once  lost,"  the  speaker  continued  in  a  lower  tone, 
"  its  worth  would  then  be  realized." 

"  Well,  if  you  will  relate  to  me  your  former  history, 
which  for  several  reasons  I  think  must  be  very  myste 
rious,  I  will  do  as  you  desire." 

"  The  condition  you  name  is  a  hard  one,  dear  Cath 
arine  ;  and  were  it  not  to  warn  a  young  and  inexperi 
enced  friend  from  the  dangerous  path  that  may  lead  to 
her  ruin,  nothing  would  tempt  me  to  unfold  that  which 

~=$K>?i: 


LITERARY    REMAINS.  271 

for  years  has  slumbered  within  my  bosom.  But  as  I 
must  first  compose  my  mind,  and  calmly  reflect  on  the 
events  that  I  have  vainly  endeavored  to  erase  from  the 
page  of  memory,  you  will  please  wait  till  evening,  and 
I  will  then  relate  to  you  a  story  that,  I  hope,  may  be 
deeply  impressed  upon  your  mind."  Saying  this,  the 
speaker  arose  and  left  the  room. 

Before  we  proceed  farther  with  our  story,  perhaps 
the  reader  would  like  to  know  more  concerning  the 
young  girl  who  is  left  to  muse  on  the  mysterious  words 
of  her  aunt. 

Catharine,  or,  as  she  was  more  commonly  called, 
Kate  Willis,  was  the  only  daughter  of  a  wealthy  mer 
chant  who  resided  in  the  city  of  Philadelphia.  Young 
|  and  beautiful,  she  consequently  had  many  admirers ; 
and  Sidney  Howard,  a  wealthy  and  talented  young  law 
yer,  had  succeeded  in  winning  her  affection.  The  morn 
ing  our  story  commences  she  received  a  note  from  him, 
stating  his  passion  for  her,  and  requesting  her  hand  in 
marriage,  in  terms  of  the  deepest  devotion.  '  She  was 
not  blind  to  his  noble  qualities,  and  returned  his  love 
with  a  warmth  and  ardor  with  which  a  nature  like  her's 
is  capable ;  but  to  teaze  him,  as  she  termed  it  in  her 
mind,  she  had  written  a  scornful  reply,  and  was  about 
to  send  it,  when,  her  aunt  entering  the  room,  she  read 
both  epistles  to  her,  after  which  the  above  conversa 
tion  ensued.  We  will  now  return  to  our  story. 

When  the  appointed  hour  arrived.  Kate  sought  the 
apartment  of  her  aunt ;  and,  seating  herself  on  a  low 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


ottoman  at  her  feet,  she  said,  "Are  you  ready  now, 
dear  aunt,  to  relate  the  promised  history  ?" 

"  Yes,  Catharine  ;  and  as  I  suppose  you  are  by  this 
time  getting  impatient,  I  will  proceed  without  further 
delay." 

I  was  born  in  Georgia,  where  my  father  owned  an 
extensive  plantation,  and  often,  in  the  sunny  days  of 
childhood,  have  I  wandered  over  the  broad  and  beauti 
ful  lands  of  his  estate,  my  heart  throbbing  merrily  with 
bright  dreams  of  the  future,  alas,  never  to  be  realized ! 
Your  father  and  myself  being  the  only  children,  we 
were  expensively  educated  ;  and,  at  the  age  of  sixteen, 
I  had  received,  what  is  called,  a  finished  education. 
When  I  attained  the  age  of  seventeen,  I  went  to  spend 
a  few  months  with  a  wealthy  aunt  who  resided  in  the  §§ 

pleasant  village  of  A ,  fifty  miles  distant  from  my 

father's  residence.  Being  highly  accomplished,  young, 
and  as  my  mirror  told  me,  beautiful,  I  was  the  cen 
ter  of  attraction  in  the  quiet  village,  and  was  proud  in 
the  consciousness  of  my  superiority  over  the  dark-eyed 
maidens  who,  till  my  appearance  in  the  place,  had  been 
called  beautiful. 

One  evening,  while  at  a  social  party  given  by  a  friend 
of  my  aunt,  I  met  with  Clarence  Beaumont,  a  young 
man  of  high  moral  character,  noble  and  generous  dis 
position,  and  endowed  with  brilliant  talents.  We  con 
versed  together  during  the  evening,  and  if  I  was  de 
lighted  with  his  free  and  elegant  manners,  I  was  more 
so  when  engaged  with  him  in  conversation  ;  and  when 
we  parted,  my  pride  was  humbled,  for  I  felt  that  I  had  fl 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


met  with  a  person  who  was  every  way  my  superior. 
Several  times  during  the  next  day  the  form  of  Clarence 
Beaumont  flitted  athwart  my  vision,  though  I  forced 
myself  to  think  that  he  had  made  no  more  impression 
on  my  mind  than  any  other  acquaintance.  We  met 
frequently,  and,  as  our  intimacy  continued,  report, 
which  is  ever  busy  with  the  affairs  of  others,  stated  that 
we  were  to  be  united. 

The  summer  months  past  quickly  away  on  the  fleet 
wings  of  time,  and  my  aunt  persuaded  me  to  remain 
with  her  during  the  winter.  At  the  close  of  a  beautiful 
day  in  September  I  wandered  to  a  small  grove,  a  short 
distance  from  the  village,  and  seated  myself  at  the  foot 
Ju  of  a  stately  tree,  to  gaze  on  the  many  beauties  pre- 
sented  to  my  view.  Slowly  and  majestically  the  sun 
had  sunk  behind  the  western  hills,  and  naught  now  re 
mained  of  his  glory  save  a  few  light  clouds,  which  his 
departing  rays  had  penciled  with  gorgeous,  yet  deli 
cately  blended  tints.  A  slight  breeze  gently  waved  the 
leafy  canopy  above  my  head,  and  a  murmuring  stream 
let  glided  swiftly  onward  a  short  distance  from  me,  re 
flecting  in  its  silvery  waters  the  fragrant  flowers  that 
embroidered  its  banks. 

I  had  not  been  seated  long,  when  a  shrill  whistle 
rang  through  the  grove,  and  the  next  instant  two  no 
ble  dogs  bounded  by  me,  and  were  soon  lost  to  rny  view 
by  the  intervening  foliage  of  the  trees.  I  thought  it 
probable  that  some  one  was  hunting  in  the  grove,  and 
again  fell  into  a  deep  reverie,  from  which  I  was  aroused 
by  the  same  shrill  sounds,  and,  raising  my  eyes  from 


18 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 

f 

the  ground,  the  form  of  Clarence  Beaumont  was  before 
me.  He  was  attended  by  one  of  the  dogs  I  have  before 
alluded  to,  and  the  other  presently  issued  from  an  open 
ing  in  the  trees  and  bounded  to  his  side.  In  one  hand 
he  held  a  richly  silver-chased  rifle,  while  with  the  other 
he  grasped  a  email  whistle  that  was  suspended  from  his 
neck,  and  from  which  proceeded  the  loud  notes  that 
had  so  unceremoniously  interrupted  my  pleasant  mu 
sings.  I  hastily  arose  to  return  to  the  village,  but  he 
respectfully  requested  me  to  remain,  saying  that  he  had 
long  desired  an  interview  with  me.  I  seated  myself 
upon  a  mossy  bank  a  short  distance  from  the  tree  above 
mentioned ;  and  suffice  it  to  say,  that  when  I  again 
arose,  it  was  with  a  proud  and  happy  heart,  for  a  few 


weeks  more  would  behold  me  the  bride  of  Clarence  |= 
Beaumont !  It  was  now  evening,  and  one  by  one  the 
stars  had  unfolded  their  mild  beauties,  till  thousands 
gemmed  the  glorious  brow  of  night.  A  few  feathery 
clouds  floated  silently  in  the  azure  expanse  above,  and 
the  moon  sailed  majestically  onward  in  her  course, 
bathing  the  earth  in  a  flood  of  silvery  light.  We 
wended  our  way  silently  homeward,  and  parted  at  the 
door  of  my  aunt's  dwelling. 

Time  passed  pleasantly,  till  within  a  few  weeks  ap 
pointed  for  our  union ;  from  which  period  commences 
the  painful  part  of  my  history,  which  I  will  endeavor 
to  relate  in  as  brief  a  manner  as  possible.  About  this 
time  a  handsome  young  man  entered  the  village  and 
took  lodgings  at  the  hotel,  exciting  quite  a  sensation 
among  the  younger  community,  as  it  was  said  that  he 


yjyj  LITERARY    REMAINS, 

was  heir  to  princely  wealth,  and  descended  from  one  of 
the  most  aristocratic  families  in  England.  I  first  met 
him  at  a  splendid  ball  given  by  a  distinguished  lady, 
with  four  marriageable  daughters  ;  and  the  moment  my 
eyes  rested  upon  his  haughty  but  expressive  features,  I 
resolved  to  bring  him  at  my  feet,  and  then  coldly  re 
fuse  him,  imagining  the  surprise  of  the  village  maidens 
when  rumor  would  state  that  the  man  whom  they  had 
vainly  endeavored  to  win  by  their  smiles,  had  been 
scornfully  rejected  by  Emma  Willis.  I  thought  that 
it  would  be  very  amusing  to  witness  the  jealousy  of 
Clarence  Beaumont,  when  he  saw  me  flirting  with  the 
handsome  young  stranger ;  and  I  heeded  not  the  small 
voice  of  conscience  that  bade  me  banish  these  sinful 
feelings  from  my  mind,  but  flattered  myself  with  the  ^ 
expression  you  made  this  morning,  that  '( there  was  no 
sin  in  a  little  harmless  coquetry." 

Mr.  Delwin,  for  such  I  had  learned  was  the  name  of 
the  haughty  stranger,  was  attracted  by  my  winning 
manners,  and  I  soon  succeeded  in  engaging  him  in  a 
lively  conversation.  I  perceived  he  was  flattered  by  my 
attentions,  and  therefore  experienced  no  uneasiness  as 
to  the  success  of  my  artful  designs.  But,  as  I  have 
before  said,  I  will  relate  this  part  of  my  history  as 
briefly  as  possible.  As  our  flirtation  continued,  it  was 
whispered  abroad  that  Clarence  Beaumont  was  no 
longer  the  favored  lover  of  Emma  Willis,  and  that  she 
was  soon  to  be  united  to  Mr.  Delwin. 

One  night,  when  the  twilight  hour  had  drawn  its 
pensive  shadows  over  the  earth,  I  strayed  to  the  grove 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


before  mentioned  and  sank  upon  the  velvet  bank,  where 
Clarence  Beaumont  and  I  had  interchanged  vows  of 
mingled  love  and  constancy.  My  thoughts  were  of  him ; 
and  as  I  reflected  on  the  cold  and  haughty  manner  I 
had  of  late  assumed  towards  him,  my  conscience  keenly 
smote  me  for  the  part  I  had  been  acting,  and  I  resolved 
to  yield  to  its  dictates,  and  appear  in  my  true  character 
hereafter.  As  I  arrived  at  this  period  of  thought,  a 
slight  sound  caused  me  to  look  from  the  ground  ;  and 
what  was  my  astonishment,  to  see  the  subject  of  my 
thoughts  before  me  !  His  face  was  very  pale,  and  as  he 
bent  his  proud  dark  eye  sternly  upon  me,  I  for  a  mo 
ment  quailed  beneath  his  glance,  and  turned  away  to 
conceal  my  emotion.  He  seated  himself  by  my  side, 
and  presently  said  :  "  Emma,  I  have  sought  an  inter 
view  with  you  this  evening,  for  the  express  purpose  of 
asking  you,  if  it  be  your  intention  to  fulfill  the  solemn 
engagement  you  made  to  me  some  weeks  since  in  this 
place  ?  if  so,  I  can  forgive  your  late  coldness,  and  we 
may  yet  be  happy  ;  if  not,  we  must  part."  I  was 
piqued  at  his  abrupt  manner,  and  replied  sarcastically, 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Beaumont,  to  grant  for 
giveness  before  it  is  requested  ;  and  allow  me  to  say, 
that  I  think  it  equally  kind  of  you  to  spy  the  actions 
of  one,  whose  love  should  never  be  doubted  ;  and  after 
forcing  yourself  into  her  presence,  rudely  demand  an 
answer  to  as  rude  a  question." 

He  appeared  not  in  the  least  discomposed  by  this 
speech,  but  answered  calmly  : 

"I  think  I  am  sufficiently  justified  in  asking  this 


LITERAEY    REMAINS. 


question  ;  and  as  I  do  not  feel  inclined  to  trifle  now, 
I  hope  you  will  answer  it  frankly."  I  proudly  rose, 
and  in  tones  trembling  with  rage,  replied  : 

"  Clarence  Beaumont,  you  have  proved,  by  your  jeal 
ousy  and  ungentlemanly  deportment  during  this  inter 
view,  that  you  are  utterly  incapable  of  that  deep  and 
trusting  passion  which  alone  can  win  the  heart  of  Emma 
Willis  ;  and  now  you  are  free  to  go — for  I  desire  to 
enjoy  the  solitude  for  which  I  sought  this  quiet  retreat, 
not  dreaming  that  I  should  be  so  unceremoneously  in 
terrupted  by  one  who  professed  to  be  so  devotedly  at 
tached  to  me."  I  paused — and  never  shall  I  forget  the 
look  of  agony  that  distorted  his  handsome  features,  as 
grasping  my  hand  convulsively  he  exclaimed,  in  tones 

%1  of  deep  emotion, 

u  "  Farewell,  Emma,  farewell  forever !  and  that  you 
may  be  happy,  is  the  wish  of  him  whom  you  have  so  deep 
ly  injured."  A  moment  more  and  I  was  alone — alone, 
to  realize  the  extent  of  my  misery  !  The  nightingale 
had  long  breathed  her  plaintive  melody,  ere  I  returned 
to  the  village ;  and  when  I  at  length  arrived  at  the 
dwelling,  which  a  few  hours  before  I  had  left  with  a  light 
step  and  happy  heart,  I  immediately  sought  the  retire 
ment  of  my  chamber,  but  not  to  enjoy 

"  Tired  nature's  sweet  restorer," 

for  the  thoughts  that  crowded  my  mind  were  too  pain 
ful  to  admit  of  a  calm,  refreshing  slumber.  All  with 
out  appeared  bright  and  beautiful ;  and  as  the  earth 
lay  calmly  reposing  in  the  pensive  beams  of  the  moon, 
which  was  now  high  in  heaven,  it  seemed  to  harbor  no 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


sorrow  within  its  broad  and  peaceful  bosom.  But  the 
beauties  on  which  I  had  often  gazed  with  delight,  now 
seemed  but  a  mockery  to  my  fondest  hopes — the  hopes 
which  I  had  crushed  by  my  own  thoughtless  and  un 
principled  folly.  Through  the  silent  vigils  of  that  long 
and  weary  night,  I  tossed  restlessly  upon  my  couch  ; 
and  when  at  length  the  bright  beams  of  the  morning 
sun  entered  my  casement,  I  arose,  faint  and  ill,  and 
on  endeavoring  to  leave  my  apartment,  I  sank  exhaust 
ed  on  the  floor.  I  have  but  a  confused  recollection  of 
hearing  many  voices,  and  of  seeing  the  form  of  my 
aunt  bending  tenderly  over  me  :  after  that,  all  is  a 
fearful  blank. 

For  weeks  I  tossed  upon  the  feverish  couch  of  deliri 
um  ;  and  when  I  at  length  returned  to  consciousness, 
in  the  bitterness  of  my  heart  I  longed  to  die,  and  lay 
my  head  within  the  silent  grave,  where  earthly  sorrow 
never  troubles  more.  A  few  weeks  passed  away,  and  I 
returned  to  my  early  home  ;  but  the  fond  parents,  who 
welcomed  me  with  looks  of  love  and  affection,  no  longer 
recognized  their  bright  and  beautiful  daughter,  in  the 
being  who  seemed  brooding  over  some  dark,  mysterious 
sorrow.  "  Fair  delusive  Hope"  never  leaves  the  heart 
long  in  the  gloom  of  despair  ;  and  as  its  soft  whisper 
ings  bade  me  banish  the  grief  that  hung  like  an  evil 
cloud  around  me,  I  in  some  measure  recovered  my  former 
gaiety,  and  even  dared  to  dream  of  future  days  of  hap 
piness  spent  with  him,  whom  the  flatterer  told  me  I 
should  meet  a^ain. 

o 

Three  long  years  passed  away,  and  I  again  went  to  ' 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


spend  a  few  months  at  A .     One  bright  afternoon, 

several  weeks  after  I  had  been  there,  my  aunt  entered 
the  drawing  room  and  requested  me  to  accompany  her 
to  a  ball,  which  I  had  previously  told  her  I  should 
not  attend.  As  she  insisted  upon  my  going,  I  arose, 
and  mechanically  prepared  to  attire  myself  with  the 
splendor  befitting  such  an  occasion.  My  toilet  being  at 
length  completed,  I  glanced  at  the  mirror,  and  as  I 
viewed  the  beautiful  image  there  reflected,  I  felt  the 
pride  of  former  days  returning,  and  on  entering  the 
carriage  that  was  to  bear  us  to  the  scene  of  pleasure,  I 
experienced  a  sensation  of  joy  that  had  long  been  a 
stranger  to  my  heart.  We  soon  arrived  at  the  place 
where  youth  and  beauty  were  gathered ;  and  as  I  en 
tered  the  gay  saloon,  I  banished  sorrow  from  my  mind, 
and  mingled  with  the  giddy  throng — the  gayest  of  the 
gay.  At  a  late  hour  I  arose  from  the  piano,  where  I  had 
long  been  seated,  and  stealing  from  the  brilliant  as 
sembly,  I  wended  my  way  to  a  small  arbor  situated  in 
an  adjoining  garden— -longing  to  cool  my  feverish  brow, 
and  for  awhile  enjoy  the  luxury  of  solitude.  I  had 
scarcely  seated  myself,  ere  I  heard  the  sound  of  voices, 
and  looking  in  the  direction  from  whence  they  proceed 
ed,  I  beheld  a  gentleman  and  lady  approaching  the 
quiet  retreat  in  which  I  hoped  to  have  remained  undis 
turbed.  Thinking  that  they  would  soon  return  to  the 
scene  of  mirth  and  festivity  within  the  mansion,  I 
hastily  concealed  myself  behind  the  surrounding  shrub 
bery  and  quietly  awaited  their  approach.  As  they 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


drew  near  the  place  of  my  concealment,  I  distinguished 
the  following  words  uttered  by  the  ladv : 

•/  V 

"And  so  I  have  at  length  beheld  the  beautiful  be 
ing  who  possessed  your  only  affections.  Can  it  be  pos 
sible  that  so  fair  an  exterior  conceals  a  false  and  treach 
erous  heart?"  I  felt  that  these  words  were  in  some 
way  connected  with  myself,  but  how  or  in  what  man 
ner  I  knew  not.  Both  individuals  were  visible  from 
the  place  of  my  retreat,  and  gazing  intently  on  the 
person  of  the  gentleman,  by  the  aid  of  the  bright  moon 
beams,  I  distinguished  the  well  known  features  of 
Clarence  Beaumont.  Repressing  the  emotions  of  ago 
ny  that  nearly  overpowered  me,  I  listened  with  breath 
less  interest  to  the  reply  that  fell  from  his  lips. 

"  Yes,  dear  Florence,  it  is  even  so ;  and  when  by  her  \ 
own  words  I  was  forced  to  believe  that  the  heart  in 
which  my  deepest  affections  were  centered  was  indeed 
false,  I  felt  that  the  world  contained  no  trust  within  its 
hollow-hearted  bosom.  After  a  long  struggle  between 
love  and  reason,  the  latter  joyfully  conquered,  and  I 
utterly  banished  from  my  thoughts  a  being  who  could 
remorselessly  trifle  with  the  affections  of  man ;  and  on 
meeting  with  you,  my  gentle  wife,  I  found  a  solace  for 
all  the  mental  agony  I  had  endured  during  that  long 
and  bitter  struggle." 

He  paused,  and  I  waited  to  hear  no  more — for  it  was 
enough  to  know  that  he  was  lost  to  me  for  ever  !  Suf 
fice  it  to  say,  that  for  years  after  that  fearful  night 
this  world  seemed  a  dreary  desert,  from  which  I  would 
have  joyfully  departed  for  the  quiet  of  the  grave.  But 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


I  now  look  to  a  higher  source  than  earth  for  enjoy 
ment  ;  and  the  holy  balm  of  religion  has  partially 
healed  the  wound  of  earlier  days,  though  I  can  never 
entirely  blot  out  the  scenes  that  I  have  related,  from 
the  dark  page  of  memory. 

My  story  is  ended,  dear  Catharine,  and  may  it  prove 
to  be  a  warning  that  will  ever  guard  you  against  co 
quetry  in  future. 

It  is  needless  to  say,  that  the  tearful  Kate  destroyed 
the  epistle  written  in  the  morning,  penning  one  that 
more  accorded  with  the  feelings  of  her  heart. 


M  THOUGHT. 

How  pure  and  exalted  are  the  pleasures  of  thought, 
and  what  a  world  of  beauty  would  be  lost  to  the  mind, 
were  it  not  for  the  inestimable  gift  of  meditation  !  It 
is  through  the  magic  power  of  this  high  and  holy  gift 
alone,  that  the  inward  gushings  of  the  soul  burst  forth 
in  strains  sublimely  beautiful ;  and  on  the  vast  wings 
of  thought,  the  spirit  seems  borne  from  this  sinful 
world  to  the  realms  of  celestial  bliss  above,  and  seeks 
communion  with  the  angel-hosts  that  throng  the  daz 
zling  streets  of  Paradise !  A  pure  and  unselfish  joy 
arises  from  the  indulgence  of  calm  and  elevated  medi 
tation — a  joy  to  which  those  who  bestow  no  time  upon 
reflection,  but  give  themselves  up  to  the  vain  and  giddy 
pursuits  of  fashion  and  folly,  are  strangers. 

Man,  as  a  rational  and  intelligent  being,  endowed 


V-     ' 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


with  talents  and  possessed  of  an  immortal  soul,  is  ac 
countable  for  the  thoughts  he  cherishes  ;  and  if  the 
noblest  powers  of  mind  be  used  to  exert  an  unholy  and 
pernicious  influence  over  the  hearts  of  others,  then 
at  the  bar  of  God  he  will  stand  condemned,  and  the 
glimpse  of  heavenly  glory  that  there  dawns  on  his  be 
wildered  vision  will  be  shut  for  ever  from  his  sight. 
Oh !  it  is  sweet  to  draw  from  the  deep  wells  of  the  in 
tellectual  nature  thoughts  of  pure  and  holy  devotion, 
which  exalt  and  refine  the  being,  and  bear  the  soul 
upward,  upward,  till  the  glory  and  grandeur  of  the 
Deity  is  unfolded  to  the  astonished  view,  in  all  the 
splendor  of  Divine  holiness,  and  the  "glorious  music  of 
the  blest"  seems  borne  from  the  starry  pavement  of  Hea 
ven  to  our  ears  !  Such  are  the  thoughts  which  a  pure 
and  elevated  mind  delights  to  cherish ;  and  such  are 
the  thoughts  breathed  in  those  rich  and  eloquent  strains 
from  the  gifted  pen  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  which  have  de 
lighted  a  world  with  their  poetical  beauty,  and  won  for 
her  a  never-dying  fame  !  In  Pollok's  "  Course  of  Time" 
we  see  the  vivid  conceptions  of  a  Godlike  genius,  breath 
ed  forth  in  thoughts  that  pierce  the  depths  of  eter 
nity  !  and  though  now  his  lyre  is  waked  in  the  blissful 
courts  above,  the  thoughts  that  inspired  its  strains 
while  on  earth  still  live,  and  will  leave  a  lasting  im 
pression  upon  many  minds. 

"  A  small  drop  of  ink, 
Falling  like  dew  upon  a  thought,  produces 
That  which  makes  thousands,  perhaps  millions,  think!" 

Then  how  carefully  should  we  avoid  those  thoughts 
which  poison  and  corrupt  the  mind,  and  with  what 


LITERARY    REMAINS.  283 

tender  care  should  we  cultivate  and  cherish  those  ideas 
which  expand  and  glow  with  beauty,  and  which  are 
utterly  devoid  of  evil !  The  meditations  that  emanate 
from  the  unsullied  depths  of  a  purely  refined  and  in 
telligent  mind  are  ever  beautiful ;  but  there  are  no 
thoughts  so  sweet  as  those  which  picture  the  imperish 
able  bliss  and  unfading  glory  of  Heaven  ! 


SABBATH   TWILIGHT. 

The  day-god  now  hath  sought  his  wonted  rest, 
And  tints,  that  beamed  so  brightly  in  the  west, 
Have  faded  in  the  soft  and  shadowy  gloom, 
Which  gently  veils  another  Sabbath's  tomb. 

THE  pensive  shadows  of  a  Sabbath  twilight  once  more 
encircle  the  earth,  and  the  holy  influences  peculiar  to 
this  hour  now  imperceptibly  gather*  around  the  heartj 
and  "  soften  its  sensibilities  into  a  delightful  tender 
ness."  How  sweetly  pleasing  is  the  scene  before  me ; 
bathed  in  the  misty  light  which  gracefully  mantles  the 
face  of  Nature,  as  if  to  render  her  charms  doubly  beau 
tiful,  by  partially  screening  them  from  the  view  !  Not 
a  ripple  disturbs  the  placid  surface  of  yonder  river, 
which,  like  the  bosom  of  some  silver  lake,  faithfully 
mirrors  the  cerulean  vaults  above  ;  and  so  gently  does 
the  passing  breeze  sigh  through  the  neighboring  wood 
lands,  waving  their  tasseled  foliage,  that  one  might 
suppose  its  low  murmurs  to  be  but  the  creation  of  im 
agination,  or  the  soft  strains  of  vEolia's  harp,  borne  to 
the  ear  only  at  intervals.  The  faint  outline  of  lofty 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


mountains  may  be  descried  in  the  distance,  their  tell 
summits  seemingly  lost  in  the  dreamy  haze,  which,  like 
the  shadow  of  a  fairy  pinion,  broods  over  the  earth,  and 
gently  links  the  sunlight  hours  with  night's  darkened 
shadows.  Beautiful  scene  !  Each  shadowy  feature,  so 
fair  and  tranquil,  seems  in  perfect  accordance  with  the 
quiet  serenity  of  the  hour  ;  and  a  holy  joy  steals  over 
the  soul  while  gazing  on  thy  softened  charms,  awaken 
ing  a  new  and  delightful  sensation  within  the  breast, 
and  impressing  the  mind  with  a  sense  of  the  wondrous 
power  of  Him  who  formed  the  universe,  so  vast  and 
boundless,  and  yet  so  beautiful  and  perfect  in  every 
part.  Fit  hour  for  calm  and  elevated  contemplation  ! 
No  sound  interrupts  thy  sweet  and  sacred  repose ;  a  ^  ( 
holy,  solemn  silence  reigns  abroad,  as  if  the  voice  of 
Nature  were  hushed  in  grief  for  the  departure  of  the 
dying  Sabbath.  It  is  now  that  the  soul,  freed  from 
the  thraldom  of  weary  cares  which  have  gathered  round 
and  veiled  its  upward  pathway,  mounts  from  earth 
away,  and  holds  blessed  communion  with  its  Maker. 
But  hark  !  the  soft,  musical  chime  of  the  "  Fort  Ed 
ward  bell "  comes  floating  over  the  hills,  "  like  the  go 
ing  abroad  of  a  spirit ;"  its  silvery  tones,  like  a  message 
of  love  from  the  skies,  calling  the  quiet  villagers  to  the 
house  of  God,  and  inviting  the  "  weary  and  heavy 
laden"  to  enter  the  holy  sanctuary,  and  "cast  the 
burden  of  their  care  at  the  feet  of  Jesus."  Oh  !  it  is 
sweet  at  an  hour  like  this,  so  calm  and  holy,  to  hear 
the  songs  of  praise  and  gladness  ascending  to  the 
skies — to  see  the  knees  bent  in  holy  adoration  before 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


the  "  mercy  seat/'  and  to  hear  the  voice,  soft  and  trem 
ulous  with  emotion,  pour  forth  the  deep  devotion  of 
the  heart  in  one  pure  and  fervent  prayer  to  God.  But 
see !  a  faint  light  wavers  in  the  east,  and  pale  Luna, 
decked  in  flowing  robes  of  silver,  mounts  from  behind 
a  fleecy  cloud,  and  treads  her  accustomed  pathway 
through  the  skies.  The  twilight  shadows  darken,  and 
another  Sabbath  will  soon  be  numbered  with  the  past, 
never,  never  more  to  be  recalled.  The  heart  is  made 
purer  and  holier,  by  spending  an  hour  so  sacred  in 
prayer  and  devotion  ;  each  feeling  is  softened,  and  a 
religious  awe  steals  over  the  soul  like  a  spell  of  en 
chantment,  tuning  its  melodies  to  the  glorious  accents 
of  praise. 


BEFLECTIONS  ON  THE  SEASONS. 
WINTER  is  fast  hastening  away,  and  the  fleecy  mantle, 
in  which  the  earth  is  now  arrayed,  will  soon  be  re 
placed  by  the  emerald  robe  and  fragrant  flowers  of 
Spring — her  balmy  breezes  bearing  on  their  lightsome 
pinions  bright  messages  of  Hope,  and  the  joyous  carols 
of  the  woodland  songsters  awaken  in  our  hearts  an 
echo,  tuned  in  unison  to  the  melodious  music  of  Nature. 
Ah,  Spring  is  indeed  beautiful !  and  those  who  strug 
gle  with  the  bitter  chains  of  poverty  during  the  long 
and  cheerless  Winter,  welcome  her  approach  with  newly 
I  budding  hopes  of  joy  and  gladness.  Yet  the  season  of 
Winter  is  not  destitute  of  charms — and,  as  I  raise  my  j 
eyes  from  this  sheet  and  look  without,  a  scene  meets 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


my  gaze,  the  splendor  of  which  surpasses  the  bright 
beauty  of  Spring,  the  soft  drapery  of  Summer,  or  the 
gorgeous  foliage  of  Autumn  !  The  wavy  summits  of 
distant  mountains,  the  broad  bosom  of  the  earth  decked 
in  fairy  robes  of  white,  the  large  forests  arrayed  in  all 
the  splendor  of  Winter  jewelry,  and  the  neighboring 
farm  houses,  from  which  arise  wreaths  of  vapor,  giving 
the  surrounding  country  an  air  of  cheerful  contentment, 
all  conspire  to  render  the  extensive  prospect  before  me, 
one  of  rural  enchantment.  Can  I  gaze  on  such  a  scene 
as  this,  and  pronounce  Winter  cheerless  ?  Ah,  no  ! 
and  though  gloomy  reflections  are  wont  to  be  associ 
ated  with  His  name,  yet  he  arrays  the  earth  in  a  garb 
that  is  far  from  being  dreary  or  desolate. 

Each  successive  season  has  its  charms,  all  alike  being 
acceptable  to  the  heart  of  man.  During  the  long  Win 
ter  we  often  sigh  for  the  approach  of  Spring,  arid  when 
she  at  length  appears,  we  for  awhile  view  her  sunny 
hills  and  inhale  the  delicious  fragrance  of  her  flowers 
with  delight,  but  we  soon  long  to  behold  the  beauties 
of  Summer,  and  when,  mantling  the  earth  in  loveliness, 
she  comes  to  gladden  our  hearts,  we  raise  our  souls  in 
joy  and  thanksgiving  to  God,  for  creating  such  a  beau 
tiful  world  for  our  existence  !  But,  as  the  lengthening 
days  pass  slowly  onward,  and  the  sultry  air  seems 
breathing  the  seeds  of  pestilence  within  our  system, 
we  pine  for  the  cool  breeze  of  Autumn  :  and  after  sa 
tiating  our  thirsting  desires  with  the  beauties  of  this 
season,  we  again  sigh  for  the  approach  of  Winter ! 
And  thus  the  restless  spirit  of  man,  contented  with  the 

— • ' — 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


present  only  for  a  short  time,  is  ever  seeking  enjoyment 
in  the  future,  and,  in  his  reckless  haste,  he  casts  away 
the  happiness  for  which  he  is  vainly  struggling ! 

The  changing  seasons  deck  the  earth  in  a  thousand 
charms,  that  please  the  eye  and  fill  the  heart  with  feel 
ings  of  unutterable  joy ;  and  Nature,  losing  none  of 
her  beauties,  assumes  the  same  lovely  aspect  each  suc 
ceeding  year.  Man  rears  costly  edifices,  decks  them 
with  luxurious  splendor,  and  calls  the  world  to  admire 
the  work  of  vanity  ;  but  the  lover  of  true  beauty  turns 
away  from  the  gilded  temples  of  art,  and  seeks  enjoy 
ment  amid  the  quiet  haunts  of  Nature,  where,  aside 
from  the  tumult  of  the  busy  crowd,  he  views  the  glo 
rious  works  by  which  he  is  surrounded,  and  from  them 
his  thoughts  are  directed  to  "  the  source  of  all  beauty 
and  enjoyment,"  and  he  feels  that  he  can  never  be  suf 
ficiently  thankful  for  the  gifts  that  are  so  bountifully 
bestowed  upon  him ! 


GOD   IN   NATUKE. 

To  KNOW  Nature,  we  must  know  its  God.  The 
Christian  alone  holds  the  key  to  Creation's  myste 
rious  volume.  From  the  Inspired  Word  we  obtain 
the  knowledge  of  the  character  and  attributes  of  the 
Deity ;  from  this  we  must  learn  the  first  great  lesson, 
supreme  love  to  God.  When  we  have  hidden  this  lesson 
in  our  hearts — when  we  feel  this  love,  like  a  mighty 
ocean,  swelling  in  our  souls,  absorbing  all  other  loves, 
^  and  bringing  into  entire  subjection  every  thought  that 




LITERARY    REMAINS. 


would  give  to  the  creature  the  throne  of  the  Creator — 
then,  and  not  till  then,  may  we  understand  Nature's 
glorious  yet  unuttered  language ! 

Here  is  a  volume  that  is  ever  open.  Blessed  is  he 
who  can  read  aright  the  unsealed  page,  to  whom  our 
God  has  given  grace  to  interpret  Creation's  grand,  un 
ceasing  anthem.  To  him  the  stars  and  the  flowers  are 
not  voiceless — the  winds  and  the  waves  have  a  beauti 
ful  language  all  their  own ;  the  grand  old  forests  wave 
a  hymn  of  perpetual  praise ;  and  the  deep,  unbroken 
solitudes  echo  to  the  music  of  that  still  small  voice, 
which,  though  silent,  yet  speaketh. 

The  poet  may  feel  his  soul  warming  with  a  new  and 
strange  delight,  as  he  goes  forth  into  the  beautiful 
world  and  surveys  the  wondrous  works  of  the  Creator. 
His  eye  may  kindle  and  his  cheek  may  glow  as  he 
takes  in  at  a  glance  some  perfect  picture  painted  by 
the  hand  of  the  great  Artist ;  but  if  he  sees  not  with 
the  eye  of  faith — if  he  looks  not  through  the  thing 
formed,  to  Him  who  formed  it — the  true  poetry  of  the 
scene  is  lost  to  him.  He  is  like  one  who  reads  a  beau 
tiful  tale,  without  perceiving  the  moral.  The  glowing 
style,  chaste  language  and  perfect  rhetoric  delight  him  ; 
but  that  which  speaks  to  the  soul,  which  gives  tone 
and  character  to  the  whole,  is  unperceived.  Oh,  who 
can  read  the  sublime  history  of  Creation,  commencing 
when  "  the  earth  was  without  form  and  void  ;  and 
darkness  was  on  the  face  of  the  deep,"  and  following 
the  great  work  till  its  completion,  without  beholding 
the  God  of  Nature  in  Nature. 


LITERARY   REMAINS.  289 


Let  him  who  sees  not  the  God  of  power  and  love  in 
his  works  read  attentively  the  first  chapter  of  Genesis, 
then  let  him  turn  to  the  New  Testament  and  read  the 
life,  sufferings  and  death  of  Christ,  and  learn  to  "  look 
through  Nature  up  to  Nature's  God."  Oh,  when  I 
look  abroad  on  the  beautiful  earth,  when  in  the  stilly 
night  I  lift  my  eyes  to  the  starry  heavens  and  behold 
the  myriad  worlds  on  high,  I  am  lost  in  wonder,  to 
think  that  He,  the  Lord  of  all — He  who  inhabiteth 
eternity,  at  whose  reproof  the  pillars  of  Heaven  trem 
ble — should  descend  from  the  throne  of  his  heavenly 
glory,  and  for  our  sakes  become  obedient  to  the  death 
of  the  cross  !  The  truth  seems  too  great  and  glorious 
for  the  human  mind  to  grasp. 

Oh,  then,  with  humble  and  adoring  hearts  and  ears 
open  to  instruction,  let  us  go  forth  into  the  halls  of 
Nature  and  listen  to  her  eloquent  teachings.  Of  the 
lowly  flowers  that  give  their  fragrance  to  the  passing 
breeze,  let  us  learn  a  lesson  of  meekness  and  benevo 
lence  ;  of  the  birds  that  hymn  their  unasked  for  and 
oft  unheard  songs,  praise  and  gratitude. 

Let  us  lift  our  eyes  to  the  unwearied  sun  which, 
since  the  time  when  "  the  evening  and  the  morning 
were  the  fourth  day,"  has  rode  the  circle  of  the  heavens 
and  imparted  light  and  heat  to  the  earth,  and  learn 
unwavering  constancy.  Let  us  learn  of  the  vast  ocean, 
whose  waves  rise  or  recede  at  the  command  of  Him 
who  once  said  "  thus  far  shalt  thou  go  and  no  farther, 
and  here  shalt  thy  proud  waves  be  stayed,"  humble 
submission,  and  of  all  God's  glorious  works,  implicit 
obedience  to  the  Divine  will. 


19 


LITERARY    REMAINS. 


THE   BEAUTIFUL  IN  NATURE. 

THERE  is  a  chord  in  the  human  heart  that  thrills  to 
beauty  and  harmony,  an  inborn  melody  of  the  spirit 
tuned  to  the  minstrelsy  of  the  outer  world. 

In  the  quiet  haunts  of  Nature,  mid  sylvan  shades 
and  voiceless  solitudes,  the  Queen  of  Beauty  hath  made 
her  realm,  and  here,  with  unveiled  eyes  and  a  heart 
open  to  the  spirit  of  loveliness,  the  lover  of  the  works 
of  God  reads  many  a  lesson  rich  with  heavenly  wisdom. 
Each  chapter  of  the  ever  open  volume  shadows  the 
Beautiful :  blessed  is  he  who  can  read  aright  the  un 
sealed  page. 

To  know  Nature,  we  must  know  its  God.  The  warb- 
ling  of  a  bird,  the  glancing  of  a  sunbeam,  the  rustling 
of  a  leaf,  the  rippling  of  a  wave,  stir  the  music  of  the 
soul ;  the  springing  of  the  tiny  flower  from  the  heart 
of  the  cold  earth,  is  to  him  a  type  of  the  glorious  re 
surrection  of  the  just. 

Angels  rejoiced  at  the  birth  of  Creation.  When 
fresh  from  the  Divine  hand  the  infant  earth  smiled  to 
the  bending  heavens,  "the  morning  stars  sang  together 
and  the  sons  of  God  shouted  for  joy ;"  and  shall  our 
eyes  be  careless  to  the  beauty  in  Nature,  our  hearts 
tuneless  to  the  song  of  angels,  our  lips  voiceless  to  the 
melodies  of  praise  ?  Nay,  with  humble  and  adoring 
hearts,  let  us  bow  down  and  thank  God  for  the  Beau 
tiful. 


DANCING.  291 


PANGING, 

MR.  EDITOR  :  It  is  with  d^ep  interest  that  I  have  pe 
rused  the  numerous  articles  upon  dancing,  in  the  Cul 
tivator,  and  though  well  aware  that  abler  pens  than 
mine  have  discussed  the  subject  in  question,  still,  I  will 
venture  to  offer  a  few  remarks  with  regard  to  this 
amusement. 

The  mere  action  of  dancing,  considered  apart  from  the 
trivial  gayeties  and  deleterious  influences  of  the  ball 
room,  certainly  appears  nothing  more  than  a  simple 
and  innocent  mode  of  recreation  ;  but  when,  as  is  often 
the  case,  the  passion  for  this  exercise  increases  to  such  / 
an  extent  as  to  interfere  with  those  high  duties  which 
are  incumbent  upon  us,  as  accountable  beings,  then, 
indeed,  its  ^ giddy  mazes"  should  cease  to  charm,  and 
other  amusements,  of  a  less  absorbing  and  bewitching 
nature,  should  be  followed. 

We  are  all  aware  that  relief  from  labor  and  mental 
exertion,  riot  only  strengthens  the  nerves  and  imparts 
renewed  energy  to  all  the  faculties,  but  is  absolutely 
essential  to  life  and  health  ;  now  it  is  my  belief  that  if 
dancing  were  not  carried  to  excess,  and  only  pursued 
in  common  with  other  amusements,  at  the  social  gath 
ering  of  a  few  friends,  within  the  quiet  precincts  of  the 
home  circle,  that  no  one  would  denounce  it  as  sinful 
and  injurious.  But  the  graceful  and  accomplished 
dancer  seems  to  think  that  no  place  but  the  ball-room 
was  designed  for  its  practice,  and  here,  plunged  in  the 


DANCING. 


giddy  vortex  of  pleasure  and  folly,*  hour  after  hour 
passes  imperceptibly  away,  and  the  dim  light  of  morn 
ing  beholds  him  languid  and  spiritless,  in  consequence 
of  encroaching  upon  the  hours  designed  for  repose,  and 
totally  unprepared  for  the  fulfillment  of  the  duties 
which  he  owes  to  himself  and  to  his  fellow  beings. 
Now  I  would  ask  those  who  frequent  the  dancing  sa 
loon,  and  consequently  think  it  as  suitable  a  place  as 
any  to  seek  for  amusement,  if  they  deem  this  a  correct 
way  of  spending  the  short  time  here,  alloted  us  to  pre 
pare  for  another  and  a  better  world  ?  And  I  would 
also  ask  Alpha,  who,  to  sustain  his  argument,  (though 
I  think  he  rather  weakens  it,)  says  :  "  You  may  there 
find  the  libertine,  the  thief,  the  robber,  and  the  mur 
derer,  but  you  will  find  them  in  the  church  also,  shield 
ing  themselves  under  the  cloak  of  Religion,"  if  it  is  his 
candid  opinion  that  a  true  follower  of  the  blessed  Re 
deemer  would  seek  enjoyment  in  those  festal  scenes 
where  pleasure  is  the  ruling  star ;  and  where  seldom, 
if  ever,  the  true  object  and  aim  of  existence,  obtain  a 
passing  thought  ? 

It  is  true,  the  garb  of  Religion  sometimes,  though 
very  seldom,  proves  effectual  in  concealing  the  crimes 
perpetrated  by  such  persons  as  Alpha  mentions,  but 
even  if  vice  is  sometimes  found  in  the  house  of  God, 

*  [Lack  of  observation,  from  want  of  opportunity  and  of  correct  in 
formation,  by  Miss  Boies— rwho  was  only  fifteen  years  of  age  when 
she  wrote  the  above — probably  prevented  insertion  here  of  another 
appropriate  word,  vice ;  produced  not  so  much  by  promiscuous  dan 
cing  as  by  use,  and  consequent  abuse,  of  not  merely  exhilarating  but 
intoxicating  beverage.  ED.] 


.» 


DANCING. 


here  also  we  find  many  true  Christians  ;  while,  on  the 
contrary,  reason  tells  us  that  no  one  who  feels  that  time 
should  be  devoted  to  higher  and  holier  purposes,  than 
the  mere  pursuit  of  worldly  pleasures,  would  so  far  for 
get  his  duty  to  himself  and  to  his  God,  as  to  seek 
amusement  within  the  unhallowed  precincts  of  a  ball 
room. 

Alpha  also  says,  that  he  may  say  of  dancing,  as  of 
music,  that  he  who  can  gaze  unmoved  upon  a  dance, 
has  no  soul,  and  is  fit  "  for  treasons,  stratagems  and 
spoils."  Dancing,  as  we  view  it,  is  wholly  incapable 
of  exerting  those  refined  and  softened  influences  over 
the  soul,  which  conspire  to  render  music  so  delightful 
and  ennobling  an  art,  and  is,  consequently,  unworthy 
to  be  compared  with  this  "  heavenly  science." 

"Music"  to  quote  the  expressive  language  of  a  dear 
friend  "  bears  our  souls  on  high,  elevates  and  purifies 
our  natures,  and  gives  a  fresh  impulse  to  our  upward 
aims  ;"  while  dancing,  on  the  contrary,  is  merely  an 
exercise  in  which  the  physical  powers  alone  are  brought 
into  action.  It  does  not  create  within  the  mind  a  love 
of  those  exalted  pleasures  which  bear  us  upward  to  the 
high  homes  of  thought  and  soul ;  and  has  no  tending 
to  cultivate  a  taste  for  moral  and  intellectual  pursuits. 

If  this  amusement  soothed  our  wayward  passions, 
and  awakened  within  our  soul  a  love  for  the  pure  and 
beautiful ;  in  fact,  if  it  tended  to  develop  our  moral 
and  mental,  as  well  as  physical,  faculties,  it  might  be 
counted  worthy  to  be  placed  on  the  same  standard  with 
music. 


LIFE. 


There  are  other  physical  exercises  more  healthful  and 
invigorating  than  dancing,  and  viewing  the  associations 
connected  with  it,  not  as  demoralizing. 


THE  morning  hours  of  life  are  very  beautiful.  There 
is  a  well-spring  of  joy  far  down  in  the  sunny  depths  of 
the  child-heart,  a  tiny  fountain,  whose  waters  are  for 
ever  playing  in  the  sunlight  of  hope.  No  shadow  dark 
ens  the  early  life-path,  no  cloud  skirts  the  fair  horizon, 
no  stain  from  the  great  world  shadows  the  heart,  and 
gives  its  mournfulness  to  the  young  soul. 

But  childhood,  with  its  beautiful  dreams  and  sunny 
hopes,  must  pass,  the  dawn  must  give  place  to  the  day, 
the  heart  must  call  forth  its  latent  energies,  and  the 
broad  arena  of  strife  must  be  entered.  Life  is  not,  as 
many  seem  to  esteem  it.  a  glorious  gift  with  which  we 
may  toy  at  our  will  ;  it  is  not  one  gala-day  ;  but  a 
school  in  which  the  soul  is  educated  for  eternity  :  and 
when  we  view  it  in  this  light,  when  the  shadow  of  the 
world  is  withdrawn  from  the  soul,  and  with  clear,  spir 
itual  vision,  we  discern  the  near  relation  which  the  pres 
ent  bears  to  the  endless  future,  we  feel  that  it  is  a  very 
solemn  thing  to  live.  We  know  not  when  the  silver 
cord  may  be  loosed  ;  we  know  not  when  the  frail  life- 


LIFE. 


barque  may  launch  from  the  stream  of  time  into  the 
shoreless  ocean  of  eternity.  Do  we  not  daily  tread  the 
boundaries  of  the  unseen  world  ?  And  is  it  not  a  sol 
emn  thing  to  walk  with  feet  pressing  -to  the  viewless 
spirit-shore  ? 


- 


RECOLLECTIONS 


LURA    ANNA    BOIES. 


JUDGE  HAY — DEAR  SIR  : 

You  desire  me  to  furnish,  for  the  pages  of  "Rural 
|  Rhymes,"  &c.,  a  brief  sketch  of  my  recollections  of  the  ,N 
lamented  Lura  Anna  Boies,  and,  in  compliance  with 
your  request,  I  sit  down  to  the  task,  although  my  pen 
is  reluctant  and  my  heart  is  sad,  for  I  do  not  hesitate 
to  make  the  acknowledgment,  that  I  loved  her  with 
brotherly  tenderness,  and  I  have  no  doubt  the  affec 
tionate  emotion  was  reciprocated  by  her. 

I  first  met  her  at  Fort  Edward  Institute,  where  I 
had  been  invited  to  deliver  a  literary  lecture.  Profes 
sor  King,  and  other  teachers  connected  with  the  insti 
tute,  had  spoken  to  me,  with  emphasis,  of  the  learning 
and  genius  of  this  gifted  young  woman,  and  awakened 
a  curious  anxiety  in  me  to  be  introduced  to  her.  I  was 
sitting  in  the  spacious  chapel  of  the  institute  waiting 
for  the  opening  exercises  of  the  morning,  when  one  of 
the  teachers  pointed  her  out  to  me.  She  was  partly 

(296) 


RECOLLECTIONS. 


hid  behind  a  column  which  prefigured  the  monument 
to  be  raised  to  her  memory,  and  I  had  to  stand  up  and 
lean  forward  to  get  a  view  of  her  face  and  form.  She 
was  very  pale — 

The  cuticle  so  thin  and  fair, 
Revealed  the  angel  sitting  there : 
Heaven  left  its  light  in  her  soft  eyes, 
Which  won  their  beauty  from  the  skies. 

An  expression  of  seriousness — sad  and  sweet — made  her 
face  a  magnet  of  attraction  to  me.  Her  likeness  was 
distinctly  daguerreotyped  on  the  retina  of  memory  ; 
and  her  name  is  never  mentioned,  in  my  hearing,  when 
I  do  not  see  her  soft,  brown  hair ;  her  beautiful  head, 
so  well  poised  over  a  loving  heart ;  her  mild  eyes  radi 
ant  with  emotion  j  her  delicate  form  of  exquisite  sym 
metry.  During  the  day  I  was  introduced  to  her,  and  she 
consented  to  write,  occasionally,  for  the  columns  of  my 
journal ;  indeed,  many  of  her  best  poems  were  first  pub 
lished  by  me.  Soon  afterwards  we  commenced  a  cor 
respondence  which  continued,  with  short  intervals,  un 
til  she  was  too  feeble  to  answer  my  letters.  She  died 
too  young.  Her  life  was  too  short ;  but  it  was  not  a 
failure.  She  accomplished  more  during  her  short  ca 
reer  than  many  persons  of  greater  pretensions  perform 
in  a  long  lifetime.  Her  heart  vibrated  at  the  point  of 
her  pen  ;  and  throbs  in  her  verse.  She  put  her  own 
life  into  her  song ;  and  the  soul  she  gave  it  will  give 
her  an  immortality  of  fame.  Her  poetry  is  beautiful 
thought  crystallized  into  simple  language ;  the  language 
of  passion  and  imagination.  It  breathes  the  aroma  of 


RECOLLECTIONS. 


emotion,  and  cannot  fail  to  awaken  a  sense  of  admira 
tion  in  the  breast  of  every  appreciative  reader.  She 
was  not  only  the  "lady  laureate"  of  the  institute,  but 
the  pet  and  general  favorite  of  the  neighborhood.  She 
was  loved  by  all  who  came  within  the  radius  of  her  ac 
quaintance,  and  loved  most  by  those  who  were  best  ac 
quainted  with  her.  She  sleeps  now  in  the  rural  church 
yard  near  Fort  Edward — the  trees  her  monument,  the 
wild  flowers  her  epitaph,  and  the  song  of  the  wood- 
birds  her  requiem. 

GEO.  W.  BUNGAT. 


REPORTED   PART 


OF 


REV.  J.  E.  KING'S  SERMON. 


NEAR  the  close  of  his  discourse,*  after  dwelling  Upon 
the  transcendent  "gain"  of  an  assured  christiart  death, 
Professor  King  went  on,  in  substance,  fo  say  J 

In  the  rapt  vision  which  dawns  upon  fay  faith,  I  am 
forgetting  to  weep,  though  the  receding  form  of  our 
gifted  and  cherished  one  vanishes  out  of  our  sight. 
"To  live  was  Christ— to  die  has  heen  her  gain."  And 
what  a  life  has  been  hers.  Ah  !  thank  God  !  thank 
God  !  No  unripened  sheaf  is  this  which  the  Great 
Reaper  gathers  into  his  garner.  0  not  without  "  tri 
umph  hours"  has  this  brief  life  been.  Possessed  of  the 
rarest  intellectual  endowments,  of  a  divinely  organized 
soul  early  harmonized  to  heavenly  truth,  she  has  made 
the  most  of  life  for  self-culture  and  for  God.  I  de 
mand  to  know  what  really  desirable  end  of  this  proba 
tionary  life  she  has  failed  to  attain.  Is  friendship  de 
sirable  ? — Who,  in  a  long  life,  has  attracted  to  her  more 

*  It  contained  many  extracts  from  the  Rural  Rhymes ;  especially 
those  entitled  "  Death,"  and  "  Gone  up  Higher." 

[299] 


SERMON. 


warm  and  true  and  noble  hearts  ?  Is  there  a  yearning 
in  the  souls  of  the  gifted  and  the  good  to  bless  others 
— to  be  useful  ? — Who  in  the  round  of  a  long  and  la 
borious  life  has  set  in  motion  so  many  blessed  agencies  ? 
The  sweet  evangel  of  her  songs  shall  still  flow  on,  like 
a  living  spring,  carrying  peace  and  gladness,  or  stirring 
pure  aspirations  in  many,  many  hearts.  Is  maturity 
in  the  Christian  life  a  lofty  goal  to  be  aimed  at  and 
struggled  for  perpetually  ?  Point  me  to  one  whose  in 
tellectual  and  moral  character  was  more  symmetrical 
and  beautiful — whose  spirit  was  more  patient,  and  lov 
ing,  and  graceful — whose  face  had  worn  more  of  the 
lineaments  of  heaven.  In  the  entire  range  —  the  whole 
curriculum  of  human  experiences,  what  was  wanting  Jl 
to  the  completeness  of  her  probation  ?  Suffering !  She  % 
had  yet,  like  the  Captain  of  our  salvation,  "  to  be  made  V 
perfect  through  suffering."  Ah !  how  fast  the  chast-  ] 
ened  soul  ripened  !  You  will  scarcely  recognize  that 
emaciated  face  as  hers.  I  have  a  better  likeness — her 
photograph  on  her  graduation  day.  But  what  will  al 
ways  help  me  to  see  her  very  self,  is  that  sketch  her  own 
hand  has  drawn,  though  unconscious  that  she  por 
trayed  herself : 

"  And  ever  on  her  gentle  lips 

There  played  a  quiet  smile, 
As  if  some  thought  of  holiness 

Were  in  her  heart  the  while. 

And  then  our  angel's  brow  grew  pale, 

Her  bounding  step  grew  slow, 
Her  voice  of  melting  melody 

Grew  very  soft  and  low. 


SEKMON. 


One  day  she  folded  her  thin  hands. 

And  closed  her  weary  eyes ; 
And  then  our  angel  fell  asleep, 

And  woke  in  Paradise." 

When  I  think  of  her  life  as  a  whole, — her  rare  ge 
nius  consecrated,  from  childhood,  to  the  holiest  objects  ; 
her  devoted  filial  piety ;  her  almost  heroic  struggle  with 
unpropitious  circumstances ;  her  almost  Christlike  pa 
tience  under  suffering,  still  singing  the  while  her  pure, 
sweet,  hopeful,  immortal  songs, — I  am  reminded  of  the 
tribute  to  the  perfect  woman,  in  olden  time,  evoked 
from  the  inspired  wise  man.  It  is  but  justice  to  speak 
his  words  in  this  presence — it  were  cowardice  to  re 
frain — "  Many  daughters  have  done  virtuously,  but 
thou  excellest  them  all." 

"  How  did  she  die  ?"  What  need  to  ask  ?  As  she 
lived.  There  was,  indeed,  a  brief  hesitation.  Her  soul 
seemed  poised,  for  a  while,  balancing  between  the  two 
worlds,  but  soon  the  ripened  spirit  gravitated  towards 
the  skies.  Heaven's  attraction  prevailed.  The  eman 
cipated  soul,  assured  of  its  salvation,  went  triumph 
antly  to  Jesus. 

-:;:•  *  #  $  -:::-  * 

To  these  parents — I  cannot  bring  words  of  condo 
lence — rather  congratulation.  Henceforth  count  your 
lives  consecrated  that  ye  have  borne  such  an  intimate 
relation  to  this  child  of  genius  and  of  God.  Ye  can — 
ye  will  go  to  her. 

Hear  again  her  valedictory  words,  ye  her  former 
classmates  and  friends: 


SERMON. 


"  We  pause— a  hush  comes  o'er  the  soul 

And  bows  it  in  an  hour  like  this, 
When  the  heart's  beating  seems  to  toll 

The  death-knell  of  the  parted  bliss  ; 
The  secret  fount  within  is  stirred, 

Higher  the  gushing  waters  swell, 
The  lip  may  breathe  one  only  word, 

Strangers  and  loved  ones,  all,  farewell !" 

We  shut  the  volume  !  No  more  shall  we  listen  to 
her  voice — hushed  for  ever  is  her  harp  !  Spring  with 
its  greenness  and  its  flowers  is  coming — the  birds  shall 
return — the  pattering  rain  shall  fall— ^and  little  chil 
dren  shall  gambol  in  the  hall  and  on  the  lawn — but  no 
song  shall  greet  them  any  more  from  these  voiceless  lips. 

Bear  her  onward  to  the  burial.  The  whispering 
pines  in  yonder  cemetery  shall  wave  their  branches  lov 
ingly  towards  her  dust,  but  they  shall  awaken  no  re 
sponse.  Hushed  her  harp — but  hushed  only  here.  Up 
among  the  minstrelsy  of  heaven  a  new  harp  is  heard. 
Hark !  faint  and  far  I  seem  to  hear  a  strain  of  tri 
umph, — "  Parents,  sisters,  comrades  dear,  let  not  your 
hearts  be  troubled — I  have  found  a  mansion  in  our 
Father's  house.  To  DIE,  is  GAIN," 


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